Child's Play
by Lampito
Summary: When a well-meaning magissa turned the Impala into a motherly woman to look after them, Sam and Dean enlisted Cas's help to petition Aphrodite to undo the spell. Apparently, Dean did more than admire the tapestries while they were there. What happened when the Goddess of Love met the Living Sex God? For a start, Sam's plaid shirts would never know what hit them...
1. Chapter One

Gah! Breeders and feeders and encouragers of plot bunnies! This little bastard WOULD NOT SHUT UP until I wrote something... if it's a while before I get on with this one, it's your own faults, you relentless reprobates...

**DISCLAIMER: **They're not mine, which is just as well, because I don't think I could afford the hair product bill.

**WORKING TITLE:** Child's Play

**RATING:** T. Winchesters be doin' swears.

**SUMMARY:** When a well-meaning magissa turned the Impala into a motherly woman to look after them, Sam and Dean enlisted Cas's help to petition Aphrodite to undo the spell. Apparently, Dean did more than admire the tapestries while they were there. What happened when the Goddess of Love met the Living Sex God? For a start, Sam's plaid shirts would never know what hit them...

**BLAME:** Lies ENTIRELY with the Denizens of the Jimiverse who kept agitating for this story. I suppose it picks up shortly after 'Teacher's Pet'. I hate you all so much...

* * *

**Chapter One**

Aphrodite glared at the athletic young man before her; she was shorter, but somehow managed to give the impression that she was towering over him. That, or it was the fact that he was actually cowering.

"It is time," she stated, "And you will undertake this task."

"Now, Aphrodite," from somewhere, Hermes found a reserve of courage somewhere to challenge her order, "Why don't you send one of your boys, one of the Erotes? Young Anteros would love to visit the mortal realm..."

"Anteros is still a child himself, and would no doubt pull one of his silly pranks," she opined. "Besides which, this is your job, Hermes. You are the messenger of the gods. I am a goddess. Therefore, you are my messenger. Therefore, you will deliver this... message."

"Yes, but, yes, but," Hermes stammered, "It's not exactly a message, is it? A message is information that I can pass on. I can't exactly take your 'message', roll it into a scroll, and stuff it under a door, can I?"

"Certainly not," agreed Aphrodite, "Which is why you will perform a speedy delivery, with all due care."

"Look, you know that I would love to help out, because Helpful is my middle name," Hermes told her brightly, "Hermes the Helpful, that's me, but I really think that in this case, it would be... prudent to send somebody else..."

"Prudent?" Aphrodite cocked a perfectly shaped eyebrow at the Winged Messenger. "Prudent? Did I just hear Hermes the Helpful, say 'prudent'? The one described by no less a light than Homer as 'The one most excellent in all tricks,' the inventor of the joke amphora, and the whoopee saddle, the one who stampeded Apollo's sacred cattle through the temple of the Vestal Virgins, the one who taught the Erotes The Trick With The Rooster, The Wine Cup And The Olive Dip, for which, I might add, I have not yet forgiven you, because the stains will never come out of that carpet... did I just hear him use the word 'prudent'?"

"Well, it's just..." Hermes began, squirming under her gaze, "It's just... you know how we all have different names, and different aspects, accorded to us by different cultures..."

"Yeeeees," she drew the word out as shorthand for 'Get on with it'.

"Well, you know how sometimes, in my role as a messenger, under any of my many guises, I may have had contact with, you know, humans, or other gods, as part of my job..."

"Do go on," she told him, "I am confident that you will get to the point sometime before the sun burns out to a cold cinder."

"Well, you know how sometimes I encounter humans under fortunate circumstances, and sometimes I encounter them under not-so-fortunate circumstances, and if the circumstances were not-so-fortunate, that is, for the humans, they can get a bit, well, upset about it..."

"I've watched vines grow faster than this," Aphrodite complained.

"I'm getting there! I'm getting there!" yelped Hermes. "Well, you know how when humans get upset, they can get a bit, well, nasty, violent, dreadfully vicious things they can be..."

Aphrodite's hand shot out, grabbed Hermes' ear, and twisted.

"AAAAAAARGH theythinkI'mdead andthat'sfinebyme iftheyseemeagainthey'llkillme becauseIscrewedwiththem thattimetherewasthatlittlepr oblemwithYahweh'stwoeldest LETGOOOOOOOOOOAFFEEEEEEEEE!" She let go, and he rubbed his ear. "That really hurt," he muttered reproachfully.

"What do you mean, they think you're dead?" Aphrodite demanded. "Don't tell me you got involved with that little stoush involving the other pantheons..."

"It wasn't my idea!" he said frantically, "I was just the go-between, taking care of the correspondence! I had to, Ganesh just never has got the hang of email..."

"Right, right," Aphrodite noted sourly, "So, if Kali told you to jump off Mount Olympus without your flying sandals, you'd do it, then."

"For her, I'd eat my flying sandals," sighed Hermes. "She's hot. And I don't just mean, set-fire-to-the-wall-hangings hot..."

"Well, just because you think they don't like you, that is no excuse to try to squirm out of this job," she told him curtly. "So, give me a few minutes, and..."

"I'm not worried about them _recognising_ me," Hermes wailed, "I'm worried about them _killing_ me!"

"Nonsense," she snapped, "Lucifer couldn't actually kill you – do you think a couple of humans can?"

"Frankly, given who these two are, I wouldn't put money on my survival," griped Hermes. "Seriously, Affy, find yourself anotherrrrrOOOOOWWWW!"

Aphrodite grabbed Hermes' ear again. "You will perform this errand for me, _little_ brother," she said pleasantly, "Or I will tell Zeus exactly where those joke thunderbolts came from. You know, the ones he picked up to hurl, but instead of a lightning strike, out popped a little flag with the word 'ZAP!' on it?"

"You wouldn't!" shrilled Hermes. "You wouldn't tell him!"

"He'd probably be really annoyed," Aphrodite postulated. "You know how he gets when anything interferes with his assertion of his godliness. He might even take away your status as messenger, and reassign you. For instance, did you know that the Romans actually had a deity of their sewers? I don't think we have an equivalent, but I'm sure that Zeus would be wiling to consider the idea..."

"This is bullying!" protested Hermes.

"No, this is blackmail," Aphrodite corrected him serenely, before letting go of his ear and slapping him upside the head. "That is bullying."

"You're mean," whined Hermes.

"I'm your big sister," Aphrodite reminded him, "I'm supposed to be horrible to you. Now, give me a few minutes, and you can be on your way. Oh, and if you were thinking of sneaking out and flitting away whilst I'm gone, why don't you pause, and consider what might happen if I told Hephaestus about the origins of the exploding rivets in his workshop, you remember, the ones that disappeared in puffs of pink smoke when he hit them?"

Hermes mumbled into resentful silence, but stayed put until Aphrodite returned.

"Fine," he griped, "If I come back dead, it will be all your fault."

"No," she told him with infuriating poise, "It will be all yours. For meddling where you shouldn't have." She handed over a small package wrapped in vine leaves. "I had the kitchen prepare you a snack. Baklava, with the rosewater syrup. Your favourite."

Hermes sighed in a deeply put-upon fashion, but bowed to his sister, left her dwelling, and carefully took wing. If worst came to worst, he mused, at least he would die on a full stomach.

**...****oooooOOOOOooooo****... ...****oooooOOOOOooooo****... ...****oooooOOOOOooooo****... ...****oooooOOOOOooooo****... ...****oooooOOOOOooooo****... **

Sam looked at his watch, and tutted in disgust. "Dean, are you still primping in there?"

"I am NOT primping!" came the reply from the bathroom of their cruddy room-du-jour. "The Living Sex God does NOT primp!" The door opened, and Dean, barely attenuated Killer Smile in place, emerged. "He carefully arranges his awesomeness, but he does not ever primp. Primping is what girls do. Or long-haired emos named Francis."

"Whatever," Sam rolled his eyes, but there wasn't much heat in his snarking. They had finished up a difficult job: they'd located the coven, destroyed the altar, burned the grimoire, and managed to thwart the summoning of an evil eldritch entity from a para-dimension that man ought not wot of, plus, they'd saved the abducted children who were going to be sacrificed in order to facilitate the summoning. Witches thwarted, and satisfyingly dead, children saved and returned to families, mothers demonstrating gratitude by plying them with baked goods, local police none the wiser, happy ending, fade to black, inspiring upbeat music plays as credits roll. But now the job was done, they could wind down, chill out, take some time to rest and recuperate...

"Don't pull a face like that, Samantha," grinned Dean, "You won't get laid if you pull a cranky face like that."

"Would it be too much to ask you to get your brain above your belt for five minutes at a time?" Sam sighed theatrically.

"Absolutely," confirmed Dean. "Tonight, my brain is so far south, I intend to party 'til I puke, drink 'til I pass out, and screw 'til my dick falls off."

"In that order?" Sam enquired solicitously as Dean flipped him off. "I won't make any plans for next week then," mused Sam. "Well, come on, then, if you think you're beautiful enough."

"If you like, you can hang around with me, and bask in the reflected awesomeness of the Living Sex God's astounding sexual magnetism," offered Dean as he picked up his jacket. "I don't mind at all if you use my amazing erotic ambiance to find some willing woman to remind you what your dick is for. I'll even give you a sock to hang on the door, if you..."

The barely audible noise at the door probably wouldn't have been noticed by anyone who wasn't a Hunter. Without hesitation, Sam pulled the door open, and Dean seized hold of the stooping figure, dragged it upright, and had one of their ornate demon-killing knives at its throat.

"YEEEEEEEEEP!" went the stranger.

Dean's eyebrows drew down. "I remember you," he growled, "Mercury, you asshole!" He hefted the knife.

"I'm not! I'm not!" the interloper squealed desperately. "I'm not Mercury!"

"Who the hell are you, then?" demanded Sam, "Because you sure as hell look like him. And what are you doing listening at our door?"

"I'm Hermes!" the unwanted visitor squawked, "And I wasn't listening, I was..."

"Same thing," shrugged Sam, "Hermes, Greek aspect of Mercury. Stab him, Dean."

"Wait wait wait wait!" insisted Hermes, "I'm here on business!"

"So are we," Dean gave him an evil grin.

"Nonononono!" Hermes yelped, "You can't kill me! I'm a god!"

"Dean considered that. "Maybe not," he conceded, "But this is a pretty damned occult knife, and I'm betting that I can make you go ouch."

"Hang on," Sam put a hand on Dean's arm, "He's the messenger of the gods, Dean. What business do you have with us?"

"Official business!" Hermes nodded frantically. "Real, official, authentic, approved godding business!"

"Not interested," shrugged Dean with contempt, "Gods are mostly dicks."

"WAAAAAAAAH!" went Hermes.

"Dean," Sam tried to be the voice of reason, "Maybe we should hear what he has to say."

"Listen to him! Listen to him!" Hermes agreed.

"Okay, say I agree to listen to him," Dean said, "If I don't like what he has to say, then can I stab him?"

"Sure," agreed Sam, "Knock yourself out."

Dean backed off reluctantly, and Hermes breathed a sigh of relief.

"So, what message does the messenger of the gods have to relay to us?" Dean asked sarcastically, "If you've got yourself a poltergeist on Mount Olympus, find someone else."

"Aphrodite sent me," Hermes told them, "She sends her regards, and... this."

He pulled aside his cloak, revealing a small bundle, which he thrust into Dean's arms.

"What the hell?" demanded Sam, stepping forward to peer over Dean's shoulder. "If this is some sort o- HOLY SHIT!"

"No," sighed Hermes. "His name is Roverto Ioannes – Robert John, in your idiom – and he is the son of Aphrodite. And Dean Winchester."

* * *

Yup, it's the plot bunny named Nathaniel. You encouraged him, and now the little bastard has his teeth in my ankle. You bastards.

Reviews will only make him whisper louder *fume fume*


	2. Chapter Two

Nathaniel the plot bunny would like to thank you all for your kind reviews - apparently, they're chocolate flavoured this close to Easter.

* * *

**Chapter Two**

There wasn't much that could render a Winchester speechless with astonishment – they'd seen too much and done too much. But every so often, something happened that would leave one or both of them silenced by surprise. For example, Sam coming home one night to find Dean passed out and snoring blissfully, cuddling a buttercup yellow teddy bear, and wearing nothing but a pair of frilly panties the same colour as the bear. Or Dean spying on his little brother and seeing him frolic in a spa wearing nothing but a smile – and the waitress who'd given Dean the brush-off just hours earlier.

Or a reluctant divine messenger showing up, dumping a baby in Dean's arms, and announcing that it was his son.

"Er, congratulations, you're a father?" offered Hermes hesitantly. "And you too, you're an uncle," he added helpfully to Sam.

"Meeeeeep," went Dean, staring dumbfounded at the bundle in his arms.

"A baby?" Sam managed finally. "What the... where the hell did it come from?"

"Ah, now, I know about this," Hermes smiled broadly, "If we're talking about gods, they can come from pretty much anywhere, springing out of sea foam, or arising from bits of murdered parents, or there can be swan involvement, not sure exactly how that works, what with the feathers and everything, but when humans are involved, traditionally it starts with copulation between a man and a woman, then about nine months later..."

"Meeeeeep," went Dean.

Sam narrowed his eyes. "Dean," he began levelly, "Your little fling with Aphrodite. When Castiel took us to meet Hephaestus and undo the spell that turned your car into a human. You weren't just bragging about doing it with a goddess, were you? Tell me you were just bragging about doing it with a goddess..."

"Meeeeep," went Dean.

"What the hell were you thinking!" it came out more shrill than Sam had intended. "Seriously, didn't Dad pound it into you about being careful about, you know, being careful? Didn't you do something?"

"Well, obviously, he did _something_," Hermes contributed. "I know about this, I have done the children-by-a-mortal thing myself, you know, and I might be a bit rusty, seeing as it's been a number of centuries now, but I distinctly remember that the male has to..."

"Shut up, you!" Sam snapped. "Dean, how the hell could you... impregnate a goddess?"

"Meeeeep," went Dean.

"It's not the first time, you know," Hermes pointed out, "Affy has done the deed with mortals before. I think she likes a taste of something a little bit naughty, a little bit... base, from time to time."

"Who are you calling base?" demanded Sam.

"Meeeeeep," went Dean.

"Look, she told me to bring him to his father, his mortal family," Hermes explained. "She says, the time for us meddling in the affairs of mortals is long past. She said you'll need him more than we do. She said that he will live, and grow, and die as a mortal." He peered at the small face peeking out from the wrap. "He's kinda cute, really," he ventured, "But I can take him away if you don't want him."

"You can?" queried Sam dubiously.

"Sure," Hermes shrugged. "It happened all the time, back in the days when I was still hanging around with humans. You have a kid you don't want, you put 'em in a pot, and leave 'em outside to get rescued, or die. It would be a shame though, becauseOOOWWWWW!"

Too fast for Sam to see, Dean moved like a snake to pin Hermes to the wall, pressing the knife into the god's throat.

"You even think about laying a hand on him," the elder Winchester growled, "And I swear I will cut your fucking head off and feed it to the dogs, do you hear me, you asshole?"

"OWWWWWW!" went Hermes, as the occult blade drew godly blood. "Bad touch! Bad touch! Aaaaaargh! Keep him then! You can keep him! Owwwwwwww!"

"Get the fuck out of here," Dean snarled, "And if I ever, EVER, see you again, I will put this thing between your ribs, and twist."

"I'm a god!" Hermes squeaked, "You can't do that! It's... it's... it's... rude!"

"I think you'd better leave," Sam suggested, as Dean continued to eye Hermes like a she-bear trying to decide exactly how best to dismember the perceived threat to her cub, "We got him now, so just, you know, flap your sandals and, uh, flock off, or whatever you do."

"Wonderful!" enthused Hermes, opening his cloak again, "So, Affy sent along some of his things – here, you'll need his tunics, and his sandals, and this is his favourite toy, and this is his other favourite toy, and this is his second favourite other toy..."

Five minutes later, Sam was looking bemusedly at the heap of stuff that was piled on his bed.

"...And this is his spanner," Hermes produced the small tool with a flourish.

"His spanner?" Sam asked in disbelief.

"His Uncle Hephaestus gave it to him," Hermes explained. "He loves to play with his spanner – you might want to keep an eye on your dogs, though, because he was forever trying to get the end onto the tails of Heph's mechanical mutts, and unscrew them. And it doubles as a sword. For sparring practice, with Uncle Ares."

"Sparring?" Sam's voice dripped horror. "He's six months old, and he's been sparring?"

"Well, what happens is, Ares holds out another spanner, and young Roverto whacks away at it with a lot more enthusiasm than technique," Hermes admitted, "But he seems to enjoy it. Anyway, that's all of it, so I'll be going. Congratulations again," he performed an elaborate bow, and tensed as if to spring away.

"Wait!" yelped Sam, "You can't just, just, turn up, and, and, and dump a baby on us, then fly away!"

"Watch me," grinned Hermes, as the little wings on his sandals began to flap, and he disappeared.

"Hey! HEY!" yelled Sam, but the god was gone. "Jesus H. Christ, what the fuck is it with those people?" He turned back to Dean. "A baby," he said flatly. "He's left a baby."

A happy gurgle came from the bundle, followed by a chubby waving arm.

"Meeeeeep," went Dean, looking down, having regressed to inarticulate bewilderment once any threat to the child had passed.

Sam pinched the bridge of his nose. "Okay, so we've got a... a baby," he said, as if trying to convince himself that it was really happening. "Your baby. Allegedly. I'm not dreaming, a Greek god just showed up, and dumped a baby on us." He peered into the wrapping, and gingerly took hold of it, peeling it back as if expecting something poisonous with lots of fangs and claws to jump out.

A small pink face, dusted with freckles and framed with blonde hair, gazed up at him with deep green eyes. The full little rosebud mouth broke into a gummy smile, as if the youngster was looking at the most wonderful thing he'd ever seen.

"Yup, that's definitely a baby," nodded Sam.

"Meeeeeep," went Dean.

"So," Sam let out a breath he didn't realise he'd been holding. "We're on our way to a job, and I haven't figured out what it is yet, and a Greek god has just show up and, and, and, given us... that." He sat down heavily, and blinked. "Bobby is going to call us idjits," he stated with certainty.

"Him," Dean said, looking down again.

"What?" asked Sam.

"He's not a 'that', he's a 'him'," Dean appeared finally to have found his voice. "He's Robert John. Robert John Winchester.

"You don't even know that he's yours, Dean," Sam got up again and started pacing, and waved his hands around in agitation, "However, we do know that gods and goddesses and angels and all those supernatural very powerful beings tend to be dicks, with plans and schemes and agendas all their own, and they are only too happy to use humans as disposable pawns in their interminable games to screw with each other, and by some whim of the cosmos, we happen to be right at the top of the list of Puny Mortal Humans To Screw With In The Pursuit Of Your Own Eternal Machinations, so for all we know..." he paused, and looked at the child again. "Shit," he muttered, "I haven't seen many pictures of you at six months, but the ones I've seen, I gotta tell you, bro, he looks a hell of a lot like you." He scrubbed a hand over his face. "So, we gotta figure out what to do with him..."

Dean brought the bundle closer, and peered into the giggling little face.

"Hey, there, RJ," he said with a smile, "I'm your dad. You can call me Daddy. And that over there, that's Uncle Sammy."

"Now, hang on, Dean," Sam began, "We have to..."

Two tiny grasping hands reached out and awkwardly grabbed Dean's nose. Dean's face broke into a radiant smile, and the baby – RJ – shrieked with delight.

"Sam. come here and sit down," instructed Dean. Sam stopped pacing and dropped to the bed beside his brother. "Now, you hold him for a minute..."

"What?" Sam suddenly sounded panicked. "I'm not gonna hold him! I don't know how!"

"Just hold him like he's a precious and irreplaceable laptop," Dean suggested, "And mind his head."

"Dean, I don't want to hold the kid," Sam insisted, "Not until we can figure out what's going on here, and what those assholes want – I think we should head to Bobby's, and see what his library has no, no, no, no no nononononononono DEAN!"

Dean manoeuvred the squirming handful into Sam's reluctant arms, and Sam gulped.

"What if I drop it?" he yelped in horror, "What if I drop it? OH GOD IT'S WIGGLING!"

"You won't," Dean assured him, "Hey, RJ, look! It's Uncle Sammy! Uncle Sammy!"

"Oh, God," wailed Sam, "This is such a bad idea, we can't take a kid with us..." he looked down into the bundle he was holding. The little face smiled widely, and grabbed for his hair.

Dean carefully nabbed the small hand, and blew a raspberry on it. RJ whooped with hilarity.

Sam sighed in defeat. "Oh, God, we are _so_ screwed."

* * *

It's a vicious circle, really: reviews feed the bunny, the bunny whispers to the fickriter, the fickriter has to write or go nuts, the Denizens read, their reviews feed the bunny, etc. etc. etc. I don't even like kidfics that much! I blame you all for this. You are relentless. Having two stories on the go at once is an invitation to madness. And madness doesn't always stand, covered in blood, silhouetted against the moon, howling in gory exaltation - sometimes, it just quietly lets itself into your head and asks 'Do you lot have room in here for one more? I brought my own basket weaving stuff'...


	3. Chapter Three

Oh dear, I think Nathaniel (the plot bunny dictating this story) might be bullying his brother Randolph (who's dictating 'Teacher's Pet') – he's definitely the more annoying of the plot bunnies at the moment. I think Randolph might have a second job working as an Easter Bunny, but I'm sure he'll be back again in a day or two.

* * *

**Chapter Three**

"So, I guess the whole party, drink and screw thing needs a rethink for tonight," Sam said finally, gingerly handing the kid – fuck, his _nephew_ – back to Dean.

"Looks like it," agreed Dean, jiggling RJ until the youngster gurgled again. He bent over to let Lemmy and Lars, the three-quarter Hellhound pups, sniff at the new addition to the pack; at around nine months of age, they weren't quite adult themselves. "Hey, guys, look here! We got a new puppy! This is RJ!"

Both the dogs nosed at the baby, tails wagging. RJ squealed, and grabbed at one of Lemmy's ears. The dog put up with it, assuming what Sam instantly recognised as the long-suffering expression that Jimi Junior had worn when Lemmy had chewed on his ears as a very young pup.

"So, what do we do?" asked Sam, bewildered.

"We raise him," Dean answered simply. "It's what people do with their kids."

"No, I mean, yeah, but, I mean, you know," Sam waved his hands around again, "He'll need feeding, and bathing, and somewhere to sleep..."

"Well, it'll just be like having another puppy," Dean reassured him. "Hopefully with fewer accidents on the carpet."

"And something to chew on," Sam added, as RJ grabbed his own foot and stuffed it into his mouth. "Oh, that can't be hygienic. Does it mean he's hungry?"

"Well, you used to do it," shrugged Dean, "I think it's just a kid thing."

"No, seriously, he's going to need... stuff," Sam insisted. "Food. Formula, I guess. And bottles. Do six month olds have bottles? Or those cup things?" He picked up a small tunic from his bed. It had a cheerful rendition of Cerberus embroidered on it. "And clothes."

"Sam, we'll work it out," Dean reassured him, as RJ began to make a squalling noise that was obviously one of discomfort. "What's up, little guy? You hungry? Oh, er," he shifted RJ slightly. "I think he's wet."

"Wet?" Understanding dawned in Sam's eyes, and he jumped backwards. "Oh, yuck!"

"It's okay," Dean rolled his eyes, "I'll just change him. I used to do this for you, you know. I bet RJ won't try to kick me in the face."

"But... we don't have any diapers!" Sam pointed out.

"We'll improvise, then go get some," Dean replied, looking around. "I just need a towel to put him down on..."

"We gotta make a list," Sam muttered, heading for his laptop and starting it up, "We're gonna need stuff, and we have to get organised..."

He hardly noticed as Dean went about changing RJ. "This is unbelievable," he told Dean, not looking up, "Do you know how many different types of formula there are? Which one are we supposed to pick?" He tapped furiously. "Did Hermes say anything about him eating solids? I don't remember him saying anything about solids. What about allergies?" He peered at the screen. "How many bottles will we need? Hang on, I'll have to find out how many times a day a six month old gets fed, I guess you don't remember... aren't you supposed to boil the bottles and stuff?" He looked up. "Dean, are you even listening?" he demanded.

"There you go," Dean smiled down at RJ, satisfied, and picked him up again. "Now, let's see what's put a twist in Uncle Sammy's panties."

"I'm only trying to figure out what we need for your, you know, your, uh, son," Sam flapped a hand in the baby's direction. "We'll have to go out tonight, like, now, and get..." he broke off, and stared at RJ.

The boy was cooing happily again, having been changed out of his wet diaper, and into a clean one.

Improvised out of one of Sam's plaid shirts.

And held together with duct tape.

"You wrapped his ass in one of my shirts?" demanded Sam incredulously.

"Yeah, it worked real good," Dean smiled, "Better than I expected. It's okay," he said generously, "You can have it back when he's finished with it."

"Oh, gross!" Sam pulled a disgusted face. "I don't want it after he's peed on it!"

"Hey, it'll wash out," Dean said un an unconcerned fashion. "I had to re-use my clothes after you peed, or puked, or drooled on me."

"Speaking of drool," Sam said, looking at RJ, "There seems to be a fair bit of it. Is that normal?"

Dean thought for a moment. "I think it's normal for kids to, well, leak," he answered, "Maybe it's because they drink so much liquid, it's gotta go somewhere, so it sort of oozes out." He looked at his watch. "Dinner will have to wait," he sighed, "We're gonna have to go shopping for… everything, I guess."

They headed for the nearest large department store, Sam driving as Dean insisted on holding RJ.

"A kiddy capsule will be the first thing we get," he decided. "Slow down! We got a kid in the car! You'll scare the hell out of him!"

"Dean, I'm doing ten below the limit," Sam told him between clenched teeth, "And he doesn't look very scared to me." He added, glancing at RJ. The baby was asleep, snuggled against Dean's chest. "I like him like that," Sam conceded.

"He does look kinda cute," agreed Dean, carefully wiping up another dribble.

"I was thinking more that he's kinda quiet," Sam corrected, pulling into the parking lot. "Okay, I guess we should… are you wiping his face with another one of my shirts? Oh, gross!"

"They're nice and soft and snuggly," Dean replied, "We'll get him some, I don't know, face wiping things. Until he's old enough to learn to use his sleeve."

"Jerk."

**...****oooooOOOOOooooo****... ...****oooooOOOOOooooo****... ...****oooooOOOOOooooo****... ...****oooooOOOOOooooo****... ...****oooooOOOOOooooo****... **

The Winchesters had faced a lot of daunting situations, but they both gulped visibly as they entered a section of the store that neither of them had had cause to visit before.

"I really hate going into a situation blind," Sam's voice sounded small and worried, "I'd really feel more confident if I could have done some research first."

"Well, time is of the essence, Sammy," Dean put on his best Protective Big Brother voice, "So we gotta wing it." He sniffed. "Hmmm, first stop, maybe diapers." He looked up at the overhead signage. "Look, over there, on that shelf," he set off confidently. "So, we grab a pack of diapers, and…"

His voice trailed off. He wasn't looking at a shelf of diapers. It was more than a shelf. It was several shelves. From floor to ceiling, the shelves were stocked with diapers.

"Holy shit," mused Dean, goggling at the selection available.

"It's like the Great Wall of Diapers," Sam mused in an uncertain voice, "It's probably visible from the moon."

"So which ones do we get?" Dean wondered aloud, bemused.

"Well," Sam sought comfort in his phone, "First, you gotta decide if you want cloth or disposable."

"What's the difference?" asked Dean.

"Cloth ones are reusable, you wash 'em and reuse 'em," Sam read, "Disposable ones, you throw 'em out when they're, uh, soiled."

"Sounds more practical," reasoned Dean.

"Yeah, but they cost more, plus, there's a school of thought that says they're environmentally unsound," Sam went on, "On account of the fibre used to make 'em, and the plastics, and the greenhouse gases generated…"

"Don't talk to me about greenhouse gases," humphed Dean, "I remember the emissions from your diapers – talk about putting holes in the ozone layer." He picked up a packet. "What about these?"

Sam checked the packet. "They use wood pulp," he frowned, "Fast growth timber plantations are a serious environmental degradation hazard, and the chlorine that's use to bleach the pulp is a toxic oxidising agent, which, considering the likelihood that it can leach into groundwater systems, is probably…"

"Sam, at this point, I don't care how tree-hugging, low-fat, high-fibre, dolphin-safe, whale-humping and rainforest-friendly they are," Dean scowled. "Let me ask you two questions: one, are you prepared to drive around in a car with a diaper pail in it, and two, are you prepared to be the Officer In Charge Of Laundering Diapers?"

Sam gave his brother a steady look. "So," he turned to the shelf, "We got bamboo, we got vitamin E, we got aloe vera, we got non-bleached…"

Dean's face became more bewildered as Sam read off the products available. "How the hell are we supposed to choose one?" he asked in bemusement.

"I have no idea," Sam scratched his head.

Dean squared his shoulders, and chose a packet. "We'll take these," he announced.

"Why those?" Sam asked.

"Because the kid on the front is playing with a toy car and looks happy," Dean answered tersely, "Right, what's next?" RJ stirred, opened his eyes, and made a querulous squawking noise. "What's that, little guy?" asked Dean.

"He's hungry," interpreted Sam.

"How can you tell?" demanded Dean.

"Because that's remarkably like the same sort of sound you make when you're watching Bobby fry bacon," replied Sam, "Come on."

The baby food section was even worse than the diapers.

"They should give you a map," Dean muttered, "People could get lost in here…" RJ squawked again. "Yeah, I know, pal, but…"

"There can't be enough babies in the state to eat all this," asserted Sam. "Seriously, you could wait out the zombie apocalypse with a hundred babies in here." He turned back to his phone. "I need time to look this stuff up," he complained.

"We need to get some help with this," Dean decided, seeing another man browsing the shelves and filling a basket as he went. "Someone who knows what they're doing." Putting on his best Solidarity-Fellow-Dad expression, he approached the other shopper. "Hey there," he began.

"Oh, hi," the man replied, smiling at RJ. "She lets you bring him shopping?" he marvelled.

"Uh, yeah," Dean replied, "In fact, she, uh, sent him with me."

"First one, huh?" the other dad smiled knowingly.

"Yeah," Dean nodded, "And I notice that you seem to know what you're doing, so I was wondering…"

"Just follow the list, exactly," the other man told him authoritatively. "That's all you gotta do."

"The list?" asked Dean.

"Exactly," reiterated the man. "That's all there is to it. Don't improvise, don't substitute, don't get anything because it's new or on special, or he grabs at it and wants it. If you can't find exactly what's on the list, call her for clarification. If you're not sure about something, call her. If the pack size she's specified isn't available, call her to check whether another size is okay. If you find everything without a problem, make up a question, and call her at least once anyway. She'll grumble about it when you get home, but it shows that you're following the list, and that'll keep her happy."

"Oh," Dean nodded, "So, that's it?"

"It's that simple," the other dad smiled again. "You guys have fun," he told them, moving away down the shelves, carefully consulting a note.

"So, what did he say?" pressed Sam.

"Uh, apparently, I'm supposed to get a list, and follow it," Dean replied.

"A list?" Sam looked bemused. "There's a list? What list? Where do you get this list? Did he come with a list?" He started tapping at his phone. "Can I download it from somewhere?"

"From what he said, I think you have to get married, or at least live with the kid's mother, to get the list," Dean opined. "The baby's mother makes the list, and you follow it."

RJ frowned adorably, and began to babble unhappily. "I think he really is hungry," noted Dean worriedly, looking back to the shelves, "We'd better get him something… but which one?"

"I don't know!" Sam almost wailed, "You were the one who wanted to drop everything and rush into this!"

"Well, you were the one who bitched about his shirt being used as a diaper!" Dean shot back, "And RJ's hungry!"

RJ chose that moment to let out the piercing wail used by small children everywhere to indicate to their carers that dinner is overdue, and if it was not forthcoming in short order, the wailer intended to horrify the wailee into satisfactory catering by Making A Scene.

"Oh, God, he's losing it," muttered Dean, sounding like he was about to do the same, as his eyes roamed the shelves. "We gotta get something, and fast." He surveyed the surfeit of sustenance despairingly, as RJ reached out to grab at a jar. "Okay, RJ has made a decision!" Dean practically sighed with relief. "Here, we'll open it now, and pay on the way out…"

"What is that?" Sam snatched it to read the label. "Hey, this is chocolate pudding! You can't feed him chocolate pudding!"

"Why not?" demanded Dean, raising his voice to make him heard over RJ's wails, "He's hungry!"

"Chocolate pudding is not a suitable meal for a baby!" asserted Sam, also raising his voice. "Jesus, look at the amount of salt in this stuff…"

"I don't care if it's made with seawater," Dean shot back, grabbing the jar back from Sam, "If he's hungry and he wants it, he can have it!"

"Dean, he needs proper baby food!" Sam insisted.

"It is baby food!" countered Dean, jiggling the now howling RJ desperately. "Look, it's got a picture of a baby on it. What do you think that means, huh? You think it means it's made out of mashed baby?"

"He needs something nutritious!" Sam was adamant.

"He needs something right now!" Dean replied, as RJ let fly a particularly piercing cry right in his ear. "It's okay, pal, you can have it, just ignore Uncle Sammy, he's a total food nazi…"

"Get him some formula, and some puree with vegetables in it," instructed Sam, grabbing the jar.

"Chocolate comes from cocoa beans, and beans are vegetables," Dean snapped in a somewhat shrill voice, making a grab to get the jar back. "Give me that!"

"Dean, it's not healthy!"

"Neither is starvation!"

Sam winced at the sound his nephew was managing to make, and tapped frantically at his phone. "Okay, okay, I gotta look up formula, and find out what's best for him," he sounded like he was trying to convince himself more than anyone else.

"Sonofabitch," yelped Dean, trying to open the jar whilst still holding a crying RJ, "This thing is stuck! Frigging childproof lids!"

"Shut up!" demanded Sam, "I'm trying to concentrate here!"

"I don't give a damn!" Dean thrust the jar of pudding at his brother. "Open this!"

"No!"

"Sam…"

"No! I will not be involved in ruining a small child's digestion!"

"WAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAH!" went RJ.

"Sam. You open this jar right now," Dean demanded, still struggling with the lid, "Or I swear, I will shove a diaper up each of your nostriiiiAARGH!"

Without warning, the lid of the jar popped off, and Dean found himself liberally splattered with chocolate pudding. RJ stopped screaming just as Dean started.

"_Sonofabitch!"_

"Don't let him eat that!" yapped Sam, as RJ let out a sound of delight, grabbed hold of Dean's pudding-smeared shirt and sucked contentedly on it.

"Crap! Crap!" hissed Dean, wiping ineffectually at the mess. RJ smiled, reached up, and patted reassuringly at Dean's face with a pudding-coated hand. "Oh, er, thanks, buddy," Dean smiled wanly, "That's… great. Enjoy."

"Oh, God," wailed Sam, clutching his phone like a religious fanatic clutching a relic, "We gotta call Bobby! We gotta call Cas! We need somebody who knows about this stuff!"

And then…

Like a moment of calm in the eye of a storm, they heard a pleasant, confident, middle-aged female voice:

"Good evening, gentlemen – can I be of any help?"

* * *

I have no idea if six month olds will eat chocolate pudding – I only know that at that age, I was stealing Goodo kibble from the dog's bowl.

Reviews are the Adorably Overwhelmed Winchesters Requiring Your Assistance in the Large Department Store Of Life!*

*You may only lick pudding off them if you are six months old.


	4. Chapter Four

**Dean (pouting): **No.

**Lampito: **Go on. You know you want to.

**Dean (pouting some more): **No!

**Lampito: **Well, you know they want you to. It's a trigger word for the Denizens, I'm afraid.

**Dean: **I don't care if they want me to lambada on the hood of the car wearing nothing but a string of bananas, I'm not doing it!

**Lampito:** Interesting idea. Do you need maracas for that?

**Dean:** Aaaaaaargh!

**Lampito: **Well, go on, then. Here, you can stand on this box.

_Muttering mutinously, Dean stands on the box, and…_

**Dean:** Pudding!

**Lampito: **There, that wasn't so bad, was it?

**Dean:** Yes it was. Why do you pick on me? It's not fair!

**Lampito:** Well, I suppose I could have Sam do some chin-ups shirtless with his jeans practically falling off him…

**Sam (clutching jeans):** AAAAARGH!

* * *

**Chapter Four**

She was short, greying, and a little dumpy. Her name tag identified her as Cheryl. Sam thought that if you looked up the word 'matronly' in the dictionary, you might find a picture of such a woman. She stood before them, in a store uniform and sensible shoes, radiating calm competence, and generally giving the impression that she had Seen It All Before.

The Winchesters looked at her with expressions that were probably remarkably similar to those of the survivors of the _Titanic_ as the _Carpathia_ steamed into view.

"Um, yes, please," stammered Sam. He resisted the urge to fall at her feet and clutch her around the knees whilst sobbing with relief; from the look on Dean's face, he was battling the same urge. He was pretty sure that if he did that, she'd have a hanky somewhere about her person to dry his tears.

"Oh, he is adorable!" she trilled, smiling at RJ, who paused in his pudding-soaked-shirt sucking long enough to look at her and give her a huge gummy smile. "What's his name?"

"Er, this is Robert John," Dean managed, as the baby turned back to his shirt. "RJ. He's, uh, he's six months hold. He's hungry," he added.

"Yes, I can see that," she nodded. "First one?" Dean nodded. "They do get a bit melodramatic if dinner is at all delayed, don't they? Mother Nature has made small children the masters of manipulative over-reaction. Oh, my first one, if one of his feeds was so much as thirty seconds late, he screamed as though his throat was being cut…"

"He did?" asked Dean dubiously.

"Long, loud and pitifully," Cheryl assured him. "Your little one here, he may be howling like he's being murdered, but that's just his way of saying he wants dinner. So, I'm guessing you might like a little assistance here?"

"Um, well, yes," ventured Sam.

"Well, that is my job!" she smiled reassuringly. "So, what exactly can I help you with?"

Dean glanced up and down the aisle. "Uh… everything?"

**...oooooOOOOOooooo... ...oooooOOOOOooooo... ...oooooOOOOOooooo... ...oooooOOOOOooooo... ...oooooOOOOOooooo...**

Half an hour later, RJ was slurping contentedly at a squeeze pack of mashed vegetables – although he seemed to be wearing more than he was ingesting, but it had stopped the heartrending howling – and the Winchesters were pushing a cart piled high with… stuff towards the car.

"Well, that was… educational," Sam said eventually, in a shell-shocked voice.

"Yeah," agreed Dean, marvelling at the way food had turned the screaming monster-child back into a gurgling little angel. "Mashed peas works on him like kryptonite works on Superman."

"What exactly is this?" asked Sam, as he transferred items to the car.

Dean looked at the object in question. "It's either a fixture for the car seat," he theorised, "Or it's some sort of teething device. I'll fit it tomorrow, when it's, uh, when I'm, er, yeah." RJ whacked him in the head with the empty packet, smearing vegetable mash into his hair. "Ow! All you had to say was, I've had enough," he smiled. "I thought your story was pretty good," he told Sam, "Under the circumstances."

"Well, I gotta admit, I was a bit, uh, rattled by that place," Sam conceded. His sad description of his brother being recently widowed, then his house being destroyed in a dreadful aviational accident involving a light plane and a flock of geese presumed to be drunk after feeding on fermenting fruit prior to beginning their migration, and the child's mother having been a very traditional sort of woman, of a European background, who had taken charge of all matters to do with the child's care, had been enough to elicit sympathetic clucking sounds from Cheryl the Amazingly Calm And Knowledgeable Sales Assistant. "But she seemed to want some sort of explanation."

"Well, let's face it, if we told her the truth, she wouldn't believe us," Dean sighed, swiping fruitlessly at his shirt, then at RJ. "Here, hold him while I take my overshirt off, would you? I look like the pudding monster."

"Dean, I don't think I'm really ready to DEAN!" protested Sam uselessly as his brother handed over RJ. "Oh, he's sticky! Er, hi again," Sam smiled wanly at the baby.

RJ smiled back, let out a small shriek of happiness, patted Sam on the cheek, then threw up.

"Oh, gross!" squawked Sam, "He puked on me! This shirt was clean on yesterday!"

"It's okay, kids do it all the time," Dean reassured him, taking RJ back, "They eat, then they spit up a bit. It's what you did, anyway."

"You might have warned me," griped Sam, trying to wipe the mess off his shoulder without touching it, "Did it go down my back?" He craned his neck to try to see.

"Let's see… only a bit," Dean reassured him. Sam scowled. "Well, we got some bibs and stuff, so he can have one of those on next time."

"That might keep it off him – what about bibs for the adults he pukes on? Oh, God, I can smell it," complained Sam, "I smell of baby puke!"

"Don't be so dramatic, Francis," grinned Dean, taking RJ back from his protesting uncle. "It's like pee, it'll wash out. Come on, let's get back to… oh, yuck!" he finished, as RJ burped heartily and spit up on his shirt. "Hey! I just took the dirty one off! Oh, God," he sniffed, "It's only been in your stomach for a few minutes, what the hell happened to it in there?"

"Don't worry, Dean," Sam positively smirked, "It'll wash out."

"Shut up," growled Dean, as RJ settled against his shoulder, "You're on laundry duty when we get back."

"What?" yapped Sam, as he started the car, "How come I get to do laundry?"

"Fine," Dean smiled humourlessly, "I'll wash the clothes, and you wash the kid."

"How often does he need washing?" Sam asked, "You know, all over washing? It mostly seems to have gone all over his clothes. As well as mine. Aren't that what wipes are for?"

"He will need washing at least once daily, Sam," sighed Dean, "And sometimes more. Because the other smell currently coming from him suggests that something to eat has, uh, gotten the mail moving, so to speak…"

Sam sniffed, and pulled a face.

"Oh. My. God."

"Yeah, yeah. You did it too, you know."

"I am not holding him again unless I can wear a Tyvex suit. And a gas mask."

"Just shut up and drive, Francis."

**...oooooOOOOOooooo... ...oooooOOOOOooooo... ...oooooOOOOOooooo... ...oooooOOOOOooooo... ...oooooOOOOOooooo...**

Cheryl watched the classic car pull out of the lot, and smiled to herself at a job well done. As she turned, another employee in a similar uniform approached her.

"Whatever happened to not interfering in the affairs of mortals any more, Affy?" he asked.

"That wasn't interfering," she replied serenely, "That was just… helping them to get started. It was a bit of a shock for them, after all."

"I thought the tall one was going to burst into tears there, for a moment, " grinned Hermes. "Are you sure about this? Really?"

"Yes," she said firmly. "He is with his family. I think he will amaze us all. Besides which, I don't want him growing up in the middle of his uncles' ridiculous pranking contests. Anything would have to be better than that."

**...oooooOOOOOooooo... ...oooooOOOOOooooo... ...oooooOOOOOooooo... ...oooooOOOOOooooo... ...oooooOOOOOooooo...**

"I thought you didn't want any cloth diapers," noted Sam, bringing another armful of shopping into their room.

"Cheryl said they're really useful for all sorts of stuff," Dean told him, "Like changing time. Or feeding time. Bibs for adults."

"There isn't a piece of fabric big enough for me to do that," Sam grumped, "Hey, guys," he turned to the puppies, who were busily nosing through the new acquisitions, "I'm afraid there isn't anything in here for HEY!" Lars grabbed a teething ring and scuttled across the room, while Lemmy put his head into a bag and came up with a sachet of lamb and potato. "HEY! Those aren't for you! Dean…"

"Kinda busy," Dean replied, putting RJ down on the bed, "Gotta deal with the biohazardous waste first. Open those, would you?"

Sam tore open the diapers, then the wipes, then made a grab for Lars, who was chomping contentedly on the teether.

"Drop it! Drop it!" demanded Sam. After realizing that there would be no wonderful game of tug-of-war, Lars released the ring, his ears drooping sadly. "Now you," Sam turned to Lemmy, who was gnawing determined at the sachet. "Give me that, you… HEY!"

Not in a hurry to give up his potential snack too easily, Lemmy shot under the bed. Lars followed, and the sounds of a spirited rassle issued forth.

"Lemmy! LEMMY! Dean! Call your damned dog!" snapped Sam.

"Kindg ob bushy shtill, Sab," replied Dean, a pair of overpants between his teeth, "Gebbe a diaber bagh, wid you?"

"With a put upon eye-roll, Sam pulled a waste bag from a roll. "Oh, Jesus Christ," he muttered, as Dean wielded the wipes, "That came out of him?"

"Unlesh there'sh shome tear in the shpashe-time continuum obened ub in hish diaber," shrugged Dean.

"Seriously, is that normal?" wondered Sam. "If you worked for Exxon, you'd be arrested for that!"

"Well, you ushed to produshe shome pretty imbreshive toxshic washte," Dean reminded him. "I guesh it debendsh on what he'sh been eading before."

"Well, I'm not going to risk having the dogs eat that stuff, and then excrete like that," snapped Sam, bending down to admonish Lars and Lemmy. "Come on, out," he demanded, "Before you eat something we all regret."

Not to be denied their stolen snack, the young dogs continued to wrestle over it.

"Right," Sam scowled, bent down, and grabbed a tail. "Get out here, you little bastarrrrOW!"

Still holding the sachet between them, Lars and Lemmy shot out from under the bed, taking Sam's feet out from under him.

"Give me that, you little assholes!" howled Sam. "Drop it! Drop it!"

Lars obediently let go, but that just gave Lemmy the chance to sprint away to do a lap of triumph with his purloined prize.

"Dean! Dean! Call your damned dog!" Sam insisted. "Lem! Lemmy! Give! Give!" He caught up with the pup, and wrenched at the packet. "Give!" Lemmy wagged his tail, and dug his teeth in harder. "Jesus, Dean, would it really kill you to do some basic obedience with him?"

"He's obedient enough," shrugged Dean, absorbed in having a face-pulling contest with RJ, who giggled anew at each of his father's new expressions. "He's still only a baby dog, so I guess food for human babies won't hurt him. Crap, I need three hands to do this thing up…" Lars chose that moment to bound onto the bed to sniff at RJ, then grab the bottle of baby powder. "Hey!" snapped Dean, "Speaking of training your dog…"

"You get it," Sam snapped back, "Just tell him to drop it! I'm trying to get your disobedient little sidekick to let go of this!"

"Okay, joke's over, Lars," instructed Dean, hoisting RJ into one arm as the smaller Winchester dog discovered the delightfully chewy consistency of the plastic bottle. "Give. Give. Hey! Give!" Lars just gnawed harder. "Give me that," muttered Dean, making a grab for the pup.

Lars dodged, and shook the bottle of powder like it was a small fluffy prey animal.

At that moment, three things happened almost simultaneously.

Lemmy gave a determined tug, and the packet of baby food tore open, liberally spraying lamb and potato across the room, just as Dean reached for the bottle of powder.

Lars gave said bottle a final shake to ensure it was dead; the cap of the deformed bottle popped off, and a small mushroom cloud of powder bloomed.

RJ clapped his hands, laughed, and threw up copiously.

"Oh, fuck," moaned Dean, sitting down heavily on his bed. Lemmy jumped up next to him. RJ put out a hand, and grabbed at the smears of baby food on the dog's fur, then shoved his hand into his mouth with a contented noise.

Lars shook himself, sending powder flying, and sneezed.

"Double fuck," agreed Sam, looking in despair at the mess down his shirt and jeans. "So, er, I was gonna do the laundry, right?"

* * *

It's nice to see Nathaniel and Randolph the plot bunnies playing nice, and taking turns. Let's hope they keep it up.

Reviews are the Reassuringly Capable Sales Assistant Coming To Your Aid In The Confusing Department Store Aisles Of Life!*

*All right, all right, for the die-hard Denizens: you can have Dean in the pie aisle, Sam in the shampoo aisle, Castiel in the alcoholic beverages aisle, or Crowley in the haberdashery aisle.


	5. Chapter Five

**Chapter Five**

Dean made an executive decision that food trumped laundry, so he dispatched Sam to get some suitable comfort food for dinner.

"So, uh, will you be okay with, you know," Sam waved a hand uncertainly at the general mess that was Dean, RJ, and two growing dogs.

"Yeah, I'll get us cleaned up," his brother assured him, as Lemmy and RJ competed for a particularly delicious looking clump of lamb and potato on Dean's shirt. "You just go hunt and gather. Catch me a bacon cheeseburger. Dig me up some fries. And gather me some pie." He watched his son swat at the dog's nose and make a petulant noise as he claimed the morsel for himself. "I'll, uh, sort out chow for all the sub-adults." RJ shoved the chunk of food into his mouth with evident pleasure, leaving a generous smear on his face, which Lemmy leaned in to lick at carefully. RJ broke into a grin, then licked Lemmy back.

"Don't let him do that!" barked Sam.

"Why not?" Dean seemed genuinely mystified as RJ giggled at the canine washing. "It's not frightening RJ."

"That's not what I mean!" Sam waved his arms around, "It's not healthy!"

Dean frowned thoughtfully. "Yeah," he agreed, "I read somewhere that human mouths harbour a really disgusting range of bacteria – best knock it off, guys," he instructed, gently breaking up the kissing session between pup and child, "We don't want you making the dogs sick, giving them worms, or something..."

"Oh, God, look, uh, okay, just call if..." Sam realised what he was saying, "...If you think of anything else we need while I'm out."

It would be correct enough to say 'Sam left'.

It would be more accurate to say 'Sam fled'.

He was torn between getting back to his brother and his nephew as quickly as possible, and dithering to stay away for as long as possible. It wasn't that he didn't like babies. He did like babies. In a sort of abstract, aren't-they-cute-in-photos, other-people's-are-very-sweet-because-you-can-hand -them-back, they're-necessary–for-the-continuation-of-the-spec ies way. But RJ was kind of... untidy. Loud. Messy. Smelly. And... he leaked. At both ends. It was... unsanitary.

He sighed, and told himself to suck it up. This was his brother's son, his nephew, he was family, and he wouldn't stay a baby for long; he'd heard people say that once children got a bit older, you could really enjoy them. He wondered how long it would take.

He decided that twenty years was probably a fair estimate.

**...****oooooOOOOOooooo****... ...****oooooOOOOOooooo****... ...****oooooOOOOOooooo****... ...****oooooOOOOOooooo****... ...****oooooOOOOOooooo****... **

When Sam returned to the Winchesters' room, he let himself in and looked around. It was empty.

"Uh, I'm back," he called. "With food," he added, using the magic word that he knew would bring Dean out of the woodwork.

"In here, Sammy," his brother's voice echoed in the small bathroom as Dean took up a long familiar bathtime song, accompanied by a gurgling honk.

"Oinker Stoinker, you're the one, _honk whonk  
_You make bathtime lots of fun, _whonk whunk  
_Oinker Stoinker I'm awfully fond of you..."

"I've got dinner, bro," Sam told his brother as he pushed open the door, "So if you want to... what the hell are you doing?"

Dean was in the tub in his shorts, holding RJ carefully in his lap, while Lemmy and Lars sat at the other end of the bath. The baby was alternating between chewing on the blue squeaky pig toy, and whacking it enthusiastically into the water. Lars snapped at the splashes, making RJ squeal happily.

"We're getting clean," answered Dean nonchalantly, scooping some more sudsy water over RJ's back. "I figured it would save time if we all cleaned up at once."

"You can't put the dogs in the bath with the baby!" Sam snapped in horror.

"It's okay," Dean assured him, "I checked the ingredients in the baby wash. It's hypoallergenic, so it's very gentle, it won't hurt them."

"That's not what I mean!" Sam spluttered. "Why is he chewing on a dog toy?"

"Well, Lemmy took his teething ring," Dean pointed out. The larger of the pups was in fact contentedly chomping on the colourful teething toy. "Fair trade, I'd say."

"Oh, God," sighed Sam, "Just... just... come on out when you're finished."

He bagged their laundry then dried off and fed the dogs while Dean dressed himself and RJ, then the humans sat down to dinner.

"Hold on, I'll just get RJ's," Dean said, heading for the kitchenette.

"You've only just got him clean, and you're going to give him more stuff to smear all over himself?" Sam asked dubiously.

"Nope," Dean pulled a bottle from the kettle, and tested the temperature. "He gets liquid refreshment. I only wish I could say the same for myself," he sighed sadly, "But I suspect that drinking whilst parenting is not a good idea at this point..."

"Hang on, hang on," Sam interrupted, "How did you make the formula?"

"The instructions are on the can," Dean told him, sitting down with RJ, "You just add a scoop to water, shaken not stirred, and hey presto, rugrat martini."

"No, I mean, you gotta wash and steriilse the bottles," Sam opened his laptop. "I saw something about this before, when I was looking up formula. Then you gotta boil the water, then let it cool. Did you boil the water?"

"No, but I warmed it up in the kettle," Dean pointed out, carefully swathing himself in a plaid wrap, "It used to work for you. So, RJ, chow's up!" He settled the child, who grabbed hold of the bottle and started to drink greedily. "So, where's my dinner?"

"You can't do that!" Sam yelped, "He'll get sick! There could be bacteria, or viruses, in the bottle, or in the water, did you even sanitise the stuff before you started?"

"Sam," Dean beamed indulgently at the feeding boy, "This kid ate his entrée off Lemmy's fur, then swapped spit with him, and then kept himself amused in the bath by chewing on Oinker Stoinker. Do you really think he's going to get sick from an unboiled bottle? What do you want me to do, boil the dogs daily? Why don't I just boil RJ, that would be most efficient, don't you think?"

Sam muttered mutinously as he took the Winchesters' dinner out of the bags.

"Anyway, it never hurt you," Dean reminded his little brother. "Dad never boiled a bottle in his life. Fill it up, shake it up, give it to me to shove into your always-screaming mouth so he could get back to his own bottle. Seriously, as soon as you saw me, you'd open your mouth and start hollering for your bottle. You were like a baby bird. I could've shoved worms down your throat."

"I was not!" protested Sam.

"You totally were," Dean insisted, reaching carefully for his burger. "As soon as I was big enough to reach a sink, I learned to make your formula, so I could give you more, to shut you up. I made it with grape Kool-Aid, once, because the water from the tap looked so dirty."

"You fed me Kool-Aid?" Sam asked in disbelief.

"It didn't do you any harm," shrugged Dean, "Well, unless you counted the next couple of diaper changes, they were pretty brutal. And the first groceries I ever stole were baby food for you. Do you know just how difficult it is to walk unobtrusively with jars of pears and custard down your pants?"

"Er, no, I have to admit, I've never tried it, so I can't offer an informed opinion," conceded Sam.

"Well, it's tricky. Especially if it's winter, and the stuff's just been brought in off a pallet out the back. Those metal lids get cold."

"Yeah, but Dad was Dad, and you were a kid looking after a kid," protested Sam around mouthfuls of chicken, "You know better now. We know better now."

"C'mon, he's a Winchester," Dean insisted, smiling down at RJ, "And Winchester men are not delicate little fainting flowers who need everything dunked in Lysol before he can even look at it. It's all good."

Whist he was drinking, RJ was also eyeing Dean's burger avidly. He paused, burped heartily, then put out a chubby hand and made a grab for it. He let out a small squeal of triumph as he managed to snatch a small piece of the bun.

"Hey!" chuckled Dean, gently retrieving the squishy piece, "Don't eat that! It's totally unsuitable, little dude."

"Well, at least he'll have a better diet than I did," Sam smiled approvingly

"Absolutely," nodded Dean, "Here," he showed his burger to RJ, who inspected it curiously with grasping fingers, "You don't wanna grab at the bun – this bit is the patty, that's where the good stuff starts..." RJ managed to snag a tiny piece of meat, and stuff it into his mouth, whereupon his face lit up in delight. "Told you," smiled Dean.

Sam turned back to his own dinner with a Bitchface #1™ (Dean, I Don't_ Believe_ You Just Did/Said/Ate/Punched/Shot/Had Sex With That!). "Don't you even think about eyeing off mine," he told his nephew accusingly. RJ blew a raspberry at him.

"Of course he won't," Dean sniffed disdainfully, "This is my kid. He'll be a carnivore. He won't want your fodder. Vegetables are what our food eats, right, RJ?" RJ giggled, burped, then threw up.

"Some of us are trying to eat, here," complained Sam.

"Never mind, we were prepared this time, weren't we?" Dean smiled, and dabbed a bubble of spit-up from RJ's face with the edge of the plaid wrap he was wearing. "See? Not a spot on my shirt."

"Not that it would matter," humphed Sam, sizing up the bag of the laundry that had accumulated by the end of the day, "I have a horrible suspicion that laundry is going to have to become a more regular part of our life."

"That can be your job," Dean announced airily, "While I get RJ ready for bed."

When they'd finished eating, Sam cleared away the trash, then resignedly inspected the laundry he was supposed to do. "It's not usually this... squishy," he commented unhappily.

"It can get kind of squishy," Dean countered, "If we've done a salt and burn on a freshie, or been dealing with vampires, they're really squishy on the inside, or zombies, they're kind of squishy if they've been dead a while, and ectoplasm, that's about as squishy as squishy can get. Just use more detergent."

"Yeah, but this is different, this is... this is..." Sam grasped for words to describe it. "This is... baby puke. And baby pee. And baby crap. It's toxic."

"At least he doesn't try to throw you through a tombstone, or drain you of blood, or eat your brains, or haunt you, before he makes your laundry squishy," shrugged Dean. "And he's a lot cuter than those fuglies, too."

"Yeah, I guess," Sam couldn't help but smile as he watched his brother beaming at his son, while RJ grinned back. "Throw me that wrap, I'll do that too."

Dean threw the item to Sam, who stuffed it into the bag, and headed for the door.

The day had been an eventful one, and it had left him rattled, but his brain suddenly supplied a small factoid: of all of the things they had purchased at the department store, a plaid wrap had not been one of them...

"What the...? Oh, gross, Dean, you used another one of my shirts, you jerk!"

* * *

Looks like those plaid shirts are going to come in handy. Certainly, I've used my flannies for everything from making a sling to wrapping up a cold puppy.

Nathaniel loves your reviews! Reviews are the Snuggly Flannel Shirts Against The Chilly Drafts Of Life!


	6. Chapter Six

Poor Nathaniel; he's trying to get on with this story, he really is, but he has to keep fighting with Real Life, and I keep choking on the fluff.

* * *

**Chapter Six**

"So, laundry done," declared Sam, sounding grumpier than he really was: the laundry room had been surprisingly non-skanky for their usual motel standard, the machines had been easy to pop for coins, the detergent dispenser had actually dispensed detergent, it had been warm, it had been blissfully free of Dean or RJ noises or smells, and he'd been able to do a bit of research, and also take a brief post-prandial nap. "Although I think there's a mark on my plaid that won't ever come out..."

Dean was on the floor, surrounded by the pieces of the travel crib, staring at the random piece of plastic that Sam had queried earlier in the evening. "Er, what are you doing?" he asked.

"Getting RJ's bed ready," Dean replied, glaring at the piece as if it had done something that he found utterly offensive. "Did you grab the extra linen from housekeeping?"

"Yeah, and towels," Sam proffered the required items. "Er," he looked from one bed to the other, "Where's RJ?"

"Over there," Dean jerked a thumb over one shoulder without turning around.

Sam peered over his brother. RJ was bundled up – in another of his shirts, he recognised with a sigh of resignation – and snoozing in between Lars and Lemmy, who curled around him to keep him from wiggling away.

"Dean!" Sam burst out, "You can't leave the dogs to baby-sit him when you're busy!"

"Why not?" asked Dean, fitting the pieces together in a different way, "I'm right here, they're doing a good job, and they don't seem to mind."

"But babies aren't supposed to sleep on a hairy blanket on the floor!" insisted Sam.

"We slept on worse when we were kids," Dean reminded him.

"A six month old is supposed to be in a crib," Sam stated.

"You never had one," Dean frowned at the offending item, "Dad just put you down next to me. It's the same thing, only they're a bit fluffier than I was."

"He's a baby!" Sam went on, "A human baby! Dean, this is your son! He's not another puppy!"

"Well, you go pick him up and hold him while I finish here, then," shrugged Dean, unconcerned. "Crap, this thing should've come with a warning, 'CAUTION: requires a PhD in engineering to assemble'..."

Sam eyed the puppy pile with trepidation – RJ and the dogs certainly did look comfortable. As he watched, RJ wiggled and fussed a little; Lemmy lifted his head, whuffed reassuringly, and licked the child's face until he settled again. "That cannot be healthy," he said finally, "You do know that the story of Romulus and Remus was only a legend, don't you?"

"Aha!" Dean yipped in triumph as the pieces finally came together. "We have assembly! Make yourself useful, Francis, make the bed."

"I've just done the laundry!" protested Sam, "How come I gotta make the bed?"

"Okay," smiled Dean, "I'll make the bed, and you get RJ into his jammies. Don't forget to check his diaper."

Muttering mutinously, Sam snatched up one of his stolen sheets.

RJ didn't mind being wiggled into a set of footie pyjamas, although Sam complained bitterly about having to be in the same room whilst another diaper change took place.

"It's a baby thing," shrugged Dean, wielding the wipes, "They leak a lot. Hey, you should learn to do this, in case you have to change him sometime..."

"What?" Sam's eyes bugged. "Why would I have to change him? You're his dad!"

"Well, I might get hurt on a Hunt, or something," Dean theorised, "Or I might have to go somewhere, do something, or possibly someone, I am the Living Sex God after all..."

"Dean," Sam fired a searing Bitchface #2™ (Dean Is A Simple Animal Governed By The Three Fs: Feeding, Fighting, and… The Other One) at his brother, "You are NOT going to dump your kid on me so that you can go prowling for a like-minded woman to screw the night away with. And we cannot, CANNOT, Hunt with a child, a baby, in tow! We gotta, we gotta..." he ran a hand distractedly through his hair. "I don't know what we're gonna do! We gotta think about this. We should go to Bobby's and spend some time working out what we're gonna do, now. Oh, God, we gotta ring him. He is so going to call us idjits..."

"We'll figure something out," Dean assured him with maddening calmness, before pulling a goofy face and blowing a raspberry on RJ's belly, to the child's delight. "Right now, all I'm gonna do is put RJ to bed, then put myself to bed. For some reason, I'm really tired."

"It must be the parenting thing," Sam yawned, "I think I've caught it from you."

"I guess under certain circumstances, uncling could be pretty tiring, too," Dean conceded. "All that googling, I'm amazed you can even hold your phone by now."

"Jerk," said Sam, without much energy.

Dean dragged the crib to beside his bed, and carefully put RJ down. "Okay, little guy," he instructed, kissing the boy goodnight, "This is officially your own personal nest. I don't mind if you paint the walls black, but no crap emo band posters, okay?"

RJ pouted and fussed, not happy at being separated from his puppy pile.

He was still grizzling when Dean and Sam turned in for one of the earliest nights they'd had since they were in grade school.

"What's wrong with him?" asked Sam.

"He's tired," Dean diagnosed, "And it's making him a bit fussy."

"If he's tired, why doesn't he just go to sleep?" asked Sam.

"It's a baby thing," Dean explained. "Usually, the tireder they get, the louder they get."

"How the hell does that work?" queried Sam.

"It just does," Dean shrugged, reaching down to let RJ grab at his hand.

"But that doesn't make any sense," Sam complained.

"Neither does sucking on your own feet," Dean pointed out. "It's just one of those design flaws that goes with the model."

RJ's fussing continued, until Lemmy got up, picked up Oinker Stoinker, and moved to sit by the crib, honking soothingly on the blue squeaky pig. The fussing subsided somewhat. Inspired, Dean began to sing.

"Oinker Stoinker, you're the one,  
You make bathtime lot's of fun,  
Oinker Stoinker, I'm awfully fond of you, look it's working, sing with me, Sammy!"

"Oh, this is ridiculous," muttered Sam, "If he's tired, he should just sleep!"

"Oinker Stoinker, joy of joys,  
When I squeeze you, you make noise,  
Oinker Stoinker you're my very best friend it's true, come on, do some uncling here, bitch," prompted Dean.

With a martyred sigh, Sam joined in.

"Every day when I make my way to the tubby,  
I find a little fella who's cute and blue and chubby,  
Rub-a-dub dubby..."

Two verses later, RJ was asleep.

"Please tell me we won't need an operatic performance to get him to sleep every night," Sam almost wailed.

"Hey, he's had a big day," Dean defended his son, reaching down to stroke the blond hair fondly, "He's left the only home he's known, and been introduced to his dad and his uncle for the first time, and left his mom – that's tough, cut him some slack. Everything's new and strange. He's bound to be unsettled for a while." He stared in fascination at the sleeping boy. "He really is cute, isn't he?"

Sam watched his brother in fascination – he wasn't sure he'd ever seen Dean so... besotted before. "Yeah, I guess so," he said with a smile. "And quiet. Quiet is good."

As they watched, RJ let out a little snore.

"Yeah, he's yours," grinned Sam.

"There, you see? Out like a light," said Dean contentedly. "So, tomorrow, we can head for Bobby's, regroup, introduce Robert John to his the guy he's named after, and, well, figure out what next." He turned out the light. "Night, bro."

"Night, Dean."

Dean lay awake just watching his son for a while in the dim light making its way through the thin curtains, but eventually, tiredness overtook him, and he too slept like a baby.

**...****oooooOOOOOooooo****... ...****oooooOOOOOooooo****... ...****oooooOOOOOooooo****... ...****oooooOOOOOooooo****... ...****oooooOOOOOooooo****... **

That is to say, he woke up two hours later, screaming.

"Aaaaaargh!" Dean shot upright in bed, knife in hand, hindbrain looking around wildly for the threat whilst his frontal lobes desperately pried the eyes open and attempted to establish contact with the speech module. "Wzzzzit?"

"Banshee?!" yowled Sam, similarly brandishing his gun before his eyes were actually focused, in a tone that was a peculiar combination of query and WTF.

Dean blinked hard a couple of times – once he himself stopped screaming, the noise kept going. From floor level.

It was RJ.

"Oh, what's up, little guy?" Dean dropped his knife, and picked up his howling son.

"What's wrong?" Sam yelped, fumbling for his phone, "What's wrong? I'll call 911, the see if you can work out where he's hurt, the ambulance will need to know..."

"Oh, er, it's okay," Dean reassured his brother as he jiggled RJ reassuringly, "He's just wet."

"Wet?" Sam blinked. "Wet? As in, wet diaper?"

"Yeah," yawned Dean, swinging himself out of bed and looking around for the diaper bag.

"But... I thought he was dying!" Sam protested. "With the screaming! I thought something was killing him! And he's just... wet?"

"Oh yeah," Dean wrestled the grizzling baby out of his PJs, "That's all it is."

"Jesus, over-reaction much?" grumped Sam. "He scared the shit out of me!"

"You can't talk," Dean told him, "I remember you screaming so much about a damp ass that the manager threw us out of one place."

Sam scowled at his brother whilst he walked up and down the room, waiting for RJ's grizzles to peter out before putting him back to bed.

"Are we good?" asked Sam, hand hovering at the light switch.

"We're awesome," replied Dean, smiling down at his son. "Come on, back to sleep, guys."

So they did.

**...****oooooOOOOOooooo****... ...****oooooOOOOOooooo****... ...****oooooOOOOOooooo****... ...****oooooOOOOOooooo****... ...****oooooOOOOOooooo****... **

For a while, anyway.

"What time is it?" mumbled Sam as Dean reached down to pick up RJ.

"About one o'clock," yawned Dean, as RJ made a querulous noise and whacked him on the ear. "Ow! Okay, okay, I'll get on it!"

"What wrong?" asked Sam.

"He's hungry," Dean replied, searching through the piles of baby stuff as RJ grabbed a handful of his shirt to suck on. "Here," he handed over a rusk, which RJ seized with interest before shoving it into his mouth, "Suck on that."

"That's what he said, folks," muttered Sam, sitting up.

"Ah, good, you're upright," noted Dean, plunking RJ down in Sam's lap. "Hold him while I make a bottle."

"Wha... Dean!" protested Sam. RJ looked up, and waved the rusk at him. "Er, yeah, hi," he said to RJ.

"Wave back," Dean instructed from the kitchenette, "Babies love that sort of thing."

"Wave back?" Sam repeated, bemused.

"Yeah, like a game," Dean told him, "He waves to you, and you wave to him."

"Fascinating," griped Sam, as RJ made a demanding noise and waved his rusk again. "Er, hi there, RJ," Sam waved back. "Hi. Nice to see you again. Just a couple of short, short hours after I saw you last."

RJ smiled, and held his rusk out for inspection.

"Yeah, it's a rusk," Sam nodded, "What a nice rusk you have. Er."

RJ waved it again, and made his interrogative noise.

"A really, really nice rusk," Sam told his nephew.

RJ looked thoughtful, then poked Sam in the chin with his rusk.

"Ow!" yelped Sam. "Dean, your kid just assaulted me with a blunt instrument!"

"He probably wants you to taste it," Dean interpreted.

"What? I'm not going to taste that!" Sam was adamant. "It's a rusk! And it's all slobbery! OW!" RJ whacked him again, more insistently.

"You only have to pretend," Dean instructed. "Go on, nom nom nom."

"This is ridiculous," Sam sighed, turning back to RJ. "Mmmmm, what a yummy looking rusk, nom nom nom," he went, pantomiming tasking the rusk whilst being careful not to make contact with it.

RJ let out a little gurgle of satisfaction, then put the rusk back into his own mouth.

"Here we go, liquid refreshment," Dean arrived and picked up RJ, who immediately grabbed his bottle and started drinking.

"Wakes up in the middle of the night screaming for a drink," nodded Sam, "He's definitely yours."

"Ha ha," said Dean, yawning again. "At least he's a fast eater, so this won't take long."

RJ quickly finished his bottle, giggled sleepily, burped, and threw up.

"Damn," muttered Dean, grabbing a nearby bib to wipe the baby's face and pyjamas, "Here, hold him while I change my shirt..."

"I don't wanna hold him if he's just eaten!" protested Sam, "What if he... oh, that is so gross..."

Dean put RJ back to sleep as Sam hauled himself out of bed to change his own tee.

"Tomorrow, I will be researching sleep schedule training for six month olds," Sam announced.

"Shut up and go to sleep, bitch," Dean told him.

"With pleasure, jerk."

Sam turned out the light, and did what his big brother told him.

**...****oooooOOOOOooooo****... ...****oooooOOOOOooooo****... ...****oooooOOOOOooooo****... ...****oooooOOOOOooooo****... ...****oooooOOOOOooooo****... **

Until RJ cried again.

"Oh, God, what is it?" groaned Sam.

"Nrrrrgf," mumbled Dean, levering himself upright to peer blearily at RJ, whose face was screwed up into a picture of unhappiness. "What's the matter, pal? You're not feeling sick after your snack are you? Oh."

"Oh?" echoed Sam. "Oh, as in, Oh, that's good, it's really nothing, or Oh, as in, Oh, this is something that's going to interfere with my sleep even more..."

"He's wet again," Dean replied, standing up slowly. "I'll fix it. Go back to sleep."

"Yeah, right, with the air raid siren going off in the same room," griped Sam, rolling over and pulling the covers over his head. He popped out again briefly. "Is this normal?" he asked.

"Fuel goes in one end, exhaust goes out the other," Dean said, "It's a universal principle."

"Great," sighed Sam, "I might've guessed you'd produce an internal combustion baby."

When all three Winchesters were back in bed, Sam turned the light out.

"With a bit of luck, he should stay down for a few hours," said Dean.

The only reply he got from Sam was a gentle snore.

"Figures," Dean murmured, reaching down to RJ, who grabbed hold of his hand again. "If only he could've gone to sleep that quickly when he was your age."

RJ cooed in satisfaction, and cuddled Dean's hand like a teddy bear.

"No, seriously, your Uncle Sammy was a nightmare," Dean went on, warming to his theme. "The pears and custard down my pants was the least of it."

RJ looked up at him with sleepy eyes, and smiled. Dean smiled back.

"So, don't you listen to any complaints from him – sometimes, the only way I could get him to sleep was to take him to the laundry, if there was one where we were staying. It was my job, you see. Our dad, your grandfather, he was having a really bad time, so I had to look after Sammy, so I'd put him on top of one of the washers, and I'd have to stand on a chair or something to make sure he didn't fall off, and I'd hold him there until the second spin cycle, then sneak back to our room so Dad didn't wake up. That could be why he has a fetish about clean clothes, being in laundries at such a young age. I'm not kidding, when you're older I've got so much dirt to dish on your uncle. For instance, you only tried to feed him a rusk. Let me tell you about the time we were in the garden at Pastor Jim's, and he found this snail, and he wanted me to eat it..."

Dean kept telling his son about Sam's pre-toddler adventures until they both fell asleep.

* * *

Reviews are the Winchester Of Your Choice Falling Asleep Looking Adorably Peaceful On The Sofa Of Life! (In the Jimiverse, you now have three of them to choose from). Could somebody come and dig me out of this heap of fluff, please?


	7. Chapter Seven

Nathaniel is turning out to be a pushy little sod...

* * *

**Chapter Seven**

Dean knew he was dreaming; that was the only way he could possibly be watching a six year old Sam running around the park, kicking a soccer ball with more enthusiasm than expertise, smiling and laughing and yelling "Dean! Dean! Look at us! Look at us, Dean!"

_Us?_ he wondered, but then another child ran into view, with sandy blonde hair and a scattering of freckles that were hardly visible across high cheekbones under green eyes, a gap-toothed smile lighting up his whole face. "Daddy!" the boy yelled, "Daddy, look at us!"

He watched, laughing, as the boys kicked the ball between them, then sent it rolling in his direction.

"Kick it back, Daddy!" yelled RJ in excitement, "Kick it back really fast!"

"Careful what you wish for, tiger," he grinned, lining up and sending the ball rocketing back towards them. Both of them dived for it, and ended up wrestling for it, flailing and shrieking with laughter.

"Okay, that's enough, before somebody gets hurt," he decided, breaking up the game.

"Look!" RJ suddenly turned, and pointed to an ice-cream truck. "Ice cream! Can we have ice cream? Please? Pleeeeeeeease?"

"Pleeeeeeeease?" begged Sam.

"Well, okay, I guess you've earned it, after all that soccer practice," Dean agreed.

"Yaaaaaaaaaay!" yelled both boys. "Yaaaaaaaaaay! Yaaaaaaaaaaay!"

"Okay, let's go get ice-cream," Dean told them.

"YAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAY!" they cheered even louder.

"Whoa, can we keep the noise down a bit?" he suggested.

YAAAAAAAAY! YAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAY!" they screeched.

"Seriously, guys, people will think I'm murdering you," he told them, wincing.

"YAAAAAAAAY!" they screamed ever more loudly, "YAAAAAAAAAAAAY!"

"Guys..."

"**YAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAY!"**

**...****oooooOOOOOooooo****... ...****oooooOOOOOooooo****... ...****oooooOOOOOooooo****... ...****oooooOOOOOooooo****... ...****oooooOOOOOooooo****... **

Sam rolled over when RJ started to cry, and peered at his watch. Five-thirty. It was dark, so that meant in the morning. Which was unfortunate, because he felt like he was about ready to go to bed for the night.

Dean suddenly shot upright in bed, flailing at the bedclothes.

"Stop it or no ice-cream!" he shouted, looking around wildly.

"Huh?" mumbled Sam, still emerging from sleep.

"Huh?" echoed Dean, looking around again, and realising that he was awake. "Oh, hey," he reached down for RJ, "Sorry, fella, I didn't mean to scare you."

"He's okay," Sam informed his brother, "He was already yelling when you woke up."

RJ frowned, and squalled querulously. "Sounds like a request for breakfast," Dean interpreted, stiffly getting up, "Hang tight, dude, I'll get right on it."

He made to put the baby down with the dogs again, but Sam yapped "Don't do that!"

"I can't hold him and get his bottle," Dean pointed out.

"Give him here, then," Sam sighed, "It's gotta be better than the floor."

Stifling a grin, Dean handed the grizzling child over. "Just keep him amused for a few minutes."

"Yeah, right. Okay," Sam sat RJ carefully in his lap, "Now, listen, your dad is on the job. Crying won't make it arrive any faster."

RJ stared at him with an expression that might well have meant _I don't believe you, _and continued to grizzle.

"Seriously," Sam went on, "Your behaviour doesn't make any sense. All this crying, you're just making yourself feel bad. And pissing off the adults who are supposed to look after you. Not a smart move, when you're a small helpless infant."

RJ let out a gurgling wail, and hiccuped.

"Do you know how many species of mammals eat their young if they get too stressed out by the whole parenting thing?" Sam asked the boy. "You gotta learn to keep a lid on the screaming."

Still grizzling, RJ reached out and grabbed a handful of Sam's shirt.

"Maybe we should get you a teddy or something," mused Sam, "Something washable."

Looking thoughtful, RJ shoved the handful of fabric into his mouth, and sucked contentedly.

"Oh, hey! Hey!" Sam looked desperately to Dean. "Dean, your kid is eating me! Again!"

"Is it keeping him quiet?" asked Dean.

"Uh, yeah, actually," Sam noticed.

"Well, no problem then," Dean shrugged, "With all the salad you eat, you're probably packed with vitamins and minerals and fibre, so you're a nutritionally sound snack."

"Jerk," Sam tried to disentangle his tee from RJ's gummy embrance; removing it only resulted in the wailing starting again. "Oh, God, here then," he sighed, offering the wedge of spit-darkened fabric to the boy. RJ shoved it back in his mouth. "Didn't we get a pacifier for this kid?"

"I thought you said that according to your god, the Great And Mighty Internet, pacifiers aren't a good idea because they can lead to dental and orthodontic problems," Dean reminded his brother.

"If it keeps him quiet, helps him sleep, or stops him eating my shirts, I don't care if he comes out looking like Rocky the squirrel," Sam humphed.

"How quickly the worm turns when reality bites," Dean grinned, returning to take RJ and proffer the bottle, which was eagerly seized. "What time is it?"

"Zero dark hundred," replied Sam. "Aren't babies supposed to spend 20 hours a day asleep or something?" He looked bemused. "Or is that dogs? Or is that dogs and babies?"

"Get fed when you're hungry, sleep when you're tired," said Dean, "I guess that's all there is to it when you're a baby. Oh, er, and, uh, exhaust after combustion," he added, wrinkling his nose. "I guess it's pretty simple when you're this age."

"I don't suppose I'm going to get any more sleep?" Sam asked with resignation.

"You can sleep in the car," Dean offered. "So can you," he told RJ, "Once I get that baby seat installed. We can do that while Sam does another load of laundry…"

"Huh?" Sam blinked. "I just did laundry yesterday!"

"Well, we got more," Dean nodded towards the pile of soiled items that had accumulated once more.

"Just wrap him in plastic, then," Sam muttered, inspecting his RJ-sucked shirt. "No, wait, I'll wrap myself in plastic. Cling wrap should do it, until I can find something more permanent."

"Right now, you can go and get my breakfast, bitch," Dean threw the car keys at his baby brother, "Before I start screaming from hunger, too."

"Fine," griped Sam, "Just so long as you know that if you crap your pants, you're on your own."

"And coffee," added Dean, "Lots of coffee."

"How many slices?" asked Sam solicitously, as his brother flipped him off.

Sam found a diner and bought a selection of items suitably rich in refined carbohydrate and saturated fat for his brother's, plus two supersized coffees of a brew that was called Megaton. He headed back to their room, and let himself back in.

"I got you junk food, and coffee," he began, "The coffee started to dissolve the spoon, so I guess it's..."

He petered out to a halt. Dean was sitting with his back against the headboard, cradling RJ to his chest, empty bottle on the bed. They were both asleep. Lemmy lay at the foot of the bed, and Lars on the floor beside the bed, looking relaxed, but with eyes wide and watchful.

"Good work, guys," he said to the dogs, smiling at the picture before him – he considered waking Dean up, but then he'd have to deal with a tired and cranky brother as well as a tired and cranky baby, so he put Dean's breakfast in the small microwave, where it would retain some of its heat, then opened his laptop and quietly started on his own.

After taking a number of pictures – after all, Bobby was going to want evidence.

**...****oooooOOOOOooooo****... ...****oooooOOOOOooooo****... ...****oooooOOOOOooooo****... ...****oooooOOOOOooooo****... ...****oooooOOOOOooooo****... **

Sam headed for the laundry again, while Dean put RJ on the front seat of the Impala, and unpacked the kiddy seat. Lars and Lemmy jumped in on either side of him.

"Don't get too comfy there," Dean told his son, who was looking around with an expression of wonder, "You'll be riding in the back with the dogs for quite some time. And it'll be at least another twelve years before you get your first driving lesson."

He unpacked the seat, and frowned at the instructions, yawning as he did so – a night of broken sleep was nothing strange to Dean Winchester, but for some reason he was really feeling it.

"Why the hell can't they write the damned instructions in plain English?" he demanded of an inconvenient universe. "I've read legal documents that make more sense than this!"

RJ let out a gurgle of sympathy, and shoved the end of Lemmy's tail into his mouth.

"Don't let Uncle Sammy see you do that," Dean cautioned, "He'll want to sterilise you at a rolling boil."

He unpacked the seat, and did his best to follow the instructions, turning the page around to try to align the diagram with reality.

"It's like one of those weird pictures drawn by the guy who has staircases going every which way," he grumbled. Briefly he considered calling Sam and asking for his help, then he had a mental picture of the two of them trying to wrangle something that apparently broke the laws of physical matter as easily as a Hellhound, and decided against it. Dean did not want his son to witness fisticuffs between his father and his uncle on only his second day in the mortal Earthly realm.

"Come on, come on," he muttered, fishing down the back of the rear seat, but all he got for his trouble was the sudden sting of flesh being speared by metal.

"Sonofabitch!" he yelped, leaping from the car and sucking on his hand.

RJ squealed and clapped.

"Shit," griped Dean, "Don't' tell Uncle Sammy I said that. I bet he's got some strong opinions about the sort of language that's appropriate to use in front of children.

RJ gurgled, and began to gnaw on Lars' front leg.

"Don't do that," Dean told him, handing the boy the small spanner that was apparently a favourite toy. RJ took it with a small noise of contentment, and began to gum at it. "Somebody will think you're a ghoul or something."

RJ babbled, then held out his spanner for examination.

"Yeah, that's a fine looking spanner you got there," Dean grinned, ruffling the kid's hair, "But right now, Daddy has to get your seat fitted so we can go see Uncle Bobby, so you just amuse yourself, okay?" RJ dutifully chomped on his spanner.

With a sigh, Dean went back to the task at hand. Unfortunately, the Impala had been constructed at a time when a 'safe child seat' had meant Mommy sitting you on her knee and holding you extra tight while Daddy did the driving…

Dean was about to use some more language that Sam would no doubt disapprove of when he felt somebody watching him.

Whipping around, he saw that it was only an older man, smiling in a friendly fashion.

"That's quite a ride you got there, young man," the old guy said approvingly. "What is she, the 67?"

"Oh, er, thanks, yeah, she is," Dean smiled wanly. In the front seat, RJ waved his spanner in greeting.

"Hey there, youngster," the old guy said, "Is Daddy setting up your seat?"

"That's what Daddy's supposed to be doing," Dean sighed, "But right now, he's not having a lot of luck."

"It can be tricky, with an older model," the old guy looked thoughtful. "I don't want to act like a creepy old stalker or anything, but I have done a few of these on pre-90s bench seats – I come from a big family – I'd be happy to take a look, if you like,"

Dean's immediate impulse was to bristle at the thought of somebody else having to help him to do something with his Baby, but the old guy just stood there, giving off nothing but sincerely helpful vibes, and he was so damned tired… "Yeah, if you like, er…"

Khal Smith," the guy held his hand out.

"Dean Winchester," Dean shook it.

"Well, Dean, if you get around that side, I think we can double team this…"

Dean didn't see exactly what the old guy did, but in short order, he had the base of the seat secured in place, and the seat locked into place.

"There we go, all secured," smiled his helper.

"Wow, er, thanks," stammered Dean. "You have done this before."

"Got eight of my own," grinned Khal, smiling wider at Dean's expression. "Well, we never had a television." Dean stifled yawn. "Young one keeping you up at nights?" asked Khal sympathetically.

"Er, yeah, he's a bit unsettled," Dean admitted. They turned to look at RJ, who was chewing on the steering wheel. "Oh, RJ, don't do that, little dude…"

"Teething, probably," suggested Khal, "That's usually what it means when they start chewing on absolutely everything."

"Oh, no," moaned Dean, picking up RJ, "That involves lots of crying and screaming, doesn't it?"

"A bit," smiled Khal, "But keeping 'em supplied with things to chew will help. My wife swore by a cup of wine."

"Wine?" Dean echoed incredulously. "For kids?"

"You pour a cup of wine," described Khal, "Then you dip your finger in, and rub it on the child's gums, then drink what's left. Said it never failed."

Dean couldn't help but smile. "I know that my Dad dipped my brother's dummy in bourbon, on occasion," he admitted. "I've never told him, though, he'd hit the roof if he found out."

"Well, I'll leave you two gentlemen to it," Khal touched the brim of his hat, "You be a good boy for your Daddy, young man." He patted the car. "And you be a good girl, and look after your family.'

"She always does," Dean smilded. RJ waved his spanner by way of a goodbye, and the old man smiled, and limped away.

"I guess we should make a start of getting all your stuff packed up," Dean told his son. "We'll have to see about getting you your very own duffle."

RJ squirmed and pulled a face; Dean checked his diaper.

"Okay, first things first," he sighed, "Let's see if we can get you changed before Uncle Sammy gets back, we don't want to upset his delicate stomach…"

**...****oooooOOOOOooooo****... ...****oooooOOOOOooooo****... ...****oooooOOOOOooooo****... ...****oooooOOOOOooooo****... ...****oooooOOOOOooooo****... **

The old man was sitting on a park bench later in the day when he saw the black Chevy Classic drive away. A skateboarding youth who'd been using an empty culvert as a half pipe sauntered over to him.

"Interesting," commented the younger man, "I haven't heard you use the name 'Khalkeus' for, what, it must be a couple of thousand years…"

"Well, it doesn't do to be too obvious about these things," Mr Smith pointed out.

"Did you, or did you not, tell Ares that the time for interfering in mortals' affairs was over?" enquired Hermes.

"That wasn't interfering," Hephaestus countered, "That was just helping. The boy was practically asleep on his feet. And the child needs a safe seat in their conveyance."

"The little charm you just put on that conveyance, I suppose that was just 'helping', too?" Hermes cocked an eyebrow.

"This is a very different age," Hephaestus stated, "Those vehicles can be dangerous. It was just a harmless little warding. To keep her, and her occupants, safe."

"Her?" grinned Hermes.

"I wouldn't expect you to understand," sniffed Hephaestus, "What are you doing here, anyway? Spying?"

"Spying is such an ugly word," protested Hermes, "I was just checking. To see how young Roverto is settling in. Affy will have my head on a spike if anything goes wrong. And yours, if she thinks you're interfering."

"If she thinks that, I'll know who to blame, you carrier of tales," barked Hephaestus gruffly. "I'm heading back now. You'll do the same, if you're smart." He stood up, and limped off, fading out of sight as he did so.

Hermes smiled to himself, and _looked_.

His job as a Messenger of the Gods required him to be able to know where somebody would be at a certain time, usually in the future – Heph was good with devices, but it had taken humanity until the 20th Century C.E. to devise the SatNav, so gods like him had to settle for superhuman abilities. At least his talent for location had never resulted in him flying up a dead-end street and landing in somebody's swimming pool, he mused. He knew they were headed for the house of the man who was practically their father, but…

He saw where they were actually going to be, and laughed out loud.

* * *

Reviews are the Delicious Spanner Of Soothing You Can Suck On When You Are Assailed By The Teething Troubles Of Life!*

*If drop-forged steel isn't your thing, you may imagine a chocolate spanner.


	8. Chapter Eight

The fluff! The fluff! The fluuuuuuuuff! AAAAAARGH! Nathaniel, you fluffy little bastard...

* * *

**Chapter Eight**

"I think he's doing it again," said Sam, turning when he heard the unpleasantly liquid hiccuping start again. Dean pulled off the road, and was pulling RJ from his seat almost before the car had stopped. And he nearly made it...

"Oh, RJ," he soothed as the baby threw up down his shirt once more, "You're not a happy traveller, are you?"

"Uh, I think it might be travel sickness," Sam suggested queasily, fishing in the trunk for a towel and the wipes, "I was having a look at some baby sites, and since he doesn't have a fever or a rash, and he improves whenever you pull over and get him out in the fresh air, it seems to point to travel sickness."

"Well, he's never been in a car before. And it's really not completely surprising," Dean commented, wiping at RJ's mouth and face. "Power puking is in the family. You were a puker for years. Seriously. You were like the TARDIS – your puke reserve was bigger inside you than you were on the outside. You could've puked competitively. You could've puked for your country."

"Could you stop using the p-word," please?" begged Sam.

"This from a guy who's been gunked with blood, ectoplasm, slime, extract of rotting corpse, Hellhound guts, grave goo, and just about every type of disgusting stinky oozing organic matter that this planet has to offer," chuckled Dean, "And you're practically fainting at the sign of a bit of baby p-word?"

"For the record, I never enjoyed any of those things either," griped Sam, looking slightly green.

Dean inspected himself and his son. "I think we both gotta change, buddy," he decided, heading for the trunk, "Here, Sam, hold him while I get this stuff out."

"This is the third time this morning!" Sam exclaimed, then he checked his watch. "Afternoon."

"Well, we left a bit late," conceded Dean, "Our routine has been disrupted. Here, hold him."

"Hang on." Sam swathed himself in one of the towels purloined from their last motel – he'd already learned the hard way that there were sometimes aftershocks. "Maybe we could just have you shrink-wrapped, or laminated," he told RJ. The baby smiled at him, then burped heartily at him. "Oh, God, the smell doesn't get any better."

Numerous wipes, a change of shirts (Dean and RJ) and some hand sanitiser (Sam) later, they were back on the road.

"You want me to drive for a while?" asked Sam as his brother yawned hugely.

"I'm fine," Dean replied automatically.

"Well, stop yawning, then," grumped Sam, doing it himself, "It's contagious." He glanced back over the seat to where RJ was snoozing. "See? You've even put your kid to sleep."

"Yay for a sleeping kid," smiled Dean. "Now, all we gotta do is get him to do that at night, when the adults want to sleep too."

"I can drive while you call Bobby," suggested Sam. "Tell him we're heading to his place with, uh, an, er, extra passenger."

"Nah, you can call him," Dean decided.

"What? RJ's your kid!" protested Sam.

"He's your nephew," countered Dean.

"Yeah, he's my nephew, because he's your son," Sam replied, "The child of my brother, who couldn't keep it in his pants around a frigging goddess..."

"It was those tapestries," Dean defended himself, "Very... evocative, they were. Incredible. The nipples followed you around the room wherever you went..."

"Well, I don't want to get called 'idjit' for something you did," Sam stated.

"Bobby will call you an idjit for something, sooner or later," Dean said reasonably, "It might just happen a bit sooner rather than later."

"Yeah," conceded Sam, "That's true. Maybe we can wait until we stop tonight, and Skype him. He won't believe us otherwise."

Dean watched his son in the mirror, that besotted smile creeping across his face again. "Yeah. I'm kind of having trouble believing it myself."

"Smelling is believing," humphed Sam, "It's a shame nobody's come up with a way to transmit odours across the internet, because if there's one thing that brings the reality of it crashing home, it's... DEANPULLOVER!"

"Huh?" glancing in the mirror, Dean saw RJ stir, grimace, and start to hiccup.

It happened before the car had come to a stop.

"Never mind," sighed Dean, going to open his door, "We'll just..."

"OHJESUSCHRISTTHAT'SGROSS!" shrieked Sam.

Dean whipped around to see Lemmy licking at RJ's face, as Lars sniffed and tasted his bib.

"Oh, well," he said philosophically, "They eat their own, and RJ's officially one of their pack, so I guess it's only a short step to..."

"DEAN!" Sam sprang from the car, opened the door, shooed the dogs out, and began frantically swabbing at his nephew's face with a handful of wipes.

Dean grinned, and went to the trunk to get a clean bib for RJ. And the sanitiser for his brother.

**...****oooooOOOOOooooo****... ...****oooooOOOOOooooo****... ...****oooooOOOOOooooo****... ...****oooooOOOOOooooo****... ...****oooooOOOOOooooo****... **

To say that their progress was halting would be an understatement. To say that their tiredness was making them a bit irritable would be laughably inadequate. They seemed to spend more time on the side of the road, dealing with RJ's input, throughput and output until Sam was completely offput and complaining of an ache in the occiput while Dean's attention was practically kaput.

"Are you watching where you're going?" demanded Sam.

"Of course I'm watching where I'm going!" Dean snapped back.

"Because you're spending more time looking in the mirror than you are at the road," accused Sam.

"Well, he's kind of grizzly," Dean sounded worried again, turning briefly to smile at RJ, who was gumming at Oinker Stoinker.

"Don't do that!" Sam yelped.

"Do what?" asked Dean.

"Turn around when you're driving!" Sam said.

"You're always telling me I need to do head checks more often," Dean complained.

"Yeah, to check for traffic," nodded Sam, "Not to check on your kid!"

"Keep your voice down!" hissed Dean as RJ began to burble unhappily, "You're upsetting RJ!"

"He was already upset," Sam countered, turning around to look at the baby. Lemmy whuffed soothingly, whilst Lars licked at the youngster. "He hasn't stopped grizzling since we left."

"Well, he has to adjust to being in the back seat," Dean reasoned, "Nobody likes that. It's all very new for him."

Sam yawned hugely, then sniffed. "Okay," he said levelly, "I know for a fact that wasn't me, so it was one of you..."

RJ let out the rising moan that was a prelude to crying. "Oh, hang on, little guy," Dean crooned as he looked for a place to pull the car off the road, "Just let Daddy find somewhere to stop." His stomach rumbled audibly. "I guess we could stop for lunch for us, too," he noted. "Or at least coffee."

"Coffee, laced liberally with No-Doz," griped Sam, yawning again.

"Stop complaining, you can sleep while we drive," Dean told his brother.

"No," Sam shot back, "Not with our own personal air raid siren in the back seat, and knowing that your eyes are not on the road, I can't."

"Don't be such a pussy," instructed Dean, as RJ's face screwed up, "Hey, RJ, do you think you can wait until we find a place..."

A fresh wave of odour, and a rising wail, made it clear that he couldn't."

"Okay," sighed Dean, yawning himself as the Impala slowed, "Let's do this."

Sam extracted the diaper bag and one of the purloined towels from the trunk whilst Dean extracted RJ from his seat, the dogs hovering anxiously while he soothed the crying child. "Okay, you hold him for a minute," Dean instructed, thrusting the baby into Sam's arms whilst he began to lay out the needed items on the trunk with the sort of precision with which he laid out the pieces of a weapon as he dismantled it, "I just need to get set up here."

"You could've left him in his seat," suggested Sam, jiggling RJ in an attempt to settle him, "He would've been perfectly... er, do you have to do that?" RJ grabbed a handful of Sam's shirt and stuffed it into his mouth. "Seriously, is that absolutely necessary?"

RJ appeared to give the matter some thought; then he spat out Sam's shirt, and grabbed a hank of his hair instead.

"Dean!" yelped Sam, "Your kid is eating my hair!"

"Well, it can't be any worse than eating Lemmy's tail," reasoned Dean, fishing for the wipes.

"Hey, come on, don't do that," Sam wheedled, trying to disengage the child, "What do you mean, Lemmy's tail? You didn't let him suck on the dog's tail, did you? Tell me you didn't let him suck on the dog's tail. OW!"

"I didn't let him, he just did," Dean shrugged. "It's okay, Lem didn't mind."

"Oh, God," sighed Sam, giving up, "I guess at least it's keeping him quiet. When we stop, I'm going to buy him a dummy, and damn the orthodontics bills later... what the...?" Sam sniffed. "Oh, shit!" he squawked, "Dean! He's, he's, oozing on me!"

"Let's have a look," said Dean, taking the child from his brother, "Oh yeah, you got it good, huh? All that mashed vegetables, see, I keep telling your uncle, eating so much vegetable matter, it'll all end in tears..."

"He oozed on me!" Sam repeated, "Dean, your kid just contaminated me! Oh, gross!"

Dean gave him a sideways look as he laid RJ down, and began changing. "I told you, babies do that. They leak."

"But... it's on me!" Sam shrugged out of his plaid with a strange desperate little dance suggestive of an arachnophobe who's just been told he has a spider on his shirt. "It's on me! Aaaaaargh! Oh, it's on my tee!" He managed to pull off his shirt without apparently touching it. A car occupied by three women went past and honked their appreciation. "Oh God, it went ALL THE WAY THROUGH! Give me those damned wipes!"

"Hey! Don't use them all!" protested Dean as Sam grabbed a handful and started frantically wiping at himself, "I need those for RJ! Er," he looked down. "And for me. Check his seat to see if he leaked on that, will you?"

"Only if I can do it without touching the damned thing," griped Sam sullenly, reaching for one of the towels. "Nah, looks like we're good. He just saved it to leak onto us."

"That's a sign of trust and affection, that is," asserted Dean, wiggling RJ into a shirt that declared 'If You Think I'm Cute, You Should See My Dad'. "He's comfortable enough around you to share his most intimate bodily fluids with you."

"There is so much wrong with what you just said I don't know where to start," Sam grumbled, throwing a half-hearted Bitchface #13™ (You Are So Totally Gross I Don't Have A Bitchface Adequate To Convey My Utter Disgust) at his brother.

They found a clean enough diner and decided to eat in as RJ seemed to be more settled. In fact, not only was he settled, he was positively engaging, looking around himself with curiosity and offering a big happy smile to anyone who passed, beginning with their waitress.

"Oh, he's just adorable!" she cooed, as he grinned and let out a happy noise, making a grab for her apron. "For the record, I think you're cuter than your Dad," she told the boy, winking at Dean, "But only just."

"Figures," sighed Sam, "He's been a crying, grizzling little puke machine for us, but show him an attractive female, and he's all smiles and charm. He's definitely yours."

One by one, the waitresses found excuses to pass the table to say hello, and each time, RJ let out a small cry of delight, then giggled adorably when they spoke to him. When one particularly buxom blonde bent to talk to him, he reached out, and grabbed at her chest, giving her a particularly cheeky grin.

"Oh, there'll be plenty of time for that when you're older!" she laughed, gently disengaging his hand. "Don't you go teaching your Daddy bad habits!"

"It's okay," Dean let the Killer Smile slide onto his face, "Daddy already has plenty of bad habits of his own."

"I'll be he does," she purred as she left.

"It's amazing, Sam," Dean marvelled as RJ continued to look around the diner, offering other patrons big smiles and uncoordinated waves, "He's a chick magnet! Look!" Another lady, in a business suit, looked up briefly from her PDA, smiled, and waved back to RJ. "It's like he's got a superpower or something!" A dour looking female trucker with a buzz cut and arms bigger than Sam's came in scowling, but as RJ gurgled and waved his spanner in greeting, her tired face broke into a smile, and she bent to let him high five her hand.

"First one, huh?" she asked with unexpected gentleness.

"Uh, yeah," answered Dean, "Is it that obvious?"

"Oh, I'd recognise that smell of exhaustion, puke and bewilderment anywhere," she told them breezily. "So, you gonna be a grease monkey, little guy?"

RJ waved his spanner and laughed as though she'd said the funniest thing he'd ever heard.

"Wow," breathed Sam, as the trucker chuckled and moved on. "She looks like she bites dicks off for breakfast, but he totally charmed her."

"He's just a very people person," Dean said judiciously, picking up the boy's bottle to feed him, "That'll be a very useful skill, when he grows up. And after all, his mother is the Goddess of Love. You don't get to be the Goddess of Love without being a people person."

"I guess not," agreed Sam.

Their lunch was unexpectedly quiet, with RJ finishing his bottle, then sitting quietly on Dean's lap and poking at things on the plate.

"Fries," Dean enunciated carefully, "Fries, we call those fries."

"Oh, God," sighed Sam, as RJ grabbed for a fry and awkwardly poked it into his mouth, "Is there any point in me telling you that fries are not suitable food for babies?"

"According to you, fries aren't suitable food for anybody," Dean reminded him. "You can point it out if you like, but we'll just ignore you. Right, RJ?" RJ made a small affirmative noise, and busied himself with examining his fry carefully.

RJ was asleep, still clutching his fry, when they were ready to leave. "He's even more adorable when he's asleep," commented their waitress when she left their bill, "He's such a good baby."

"Yeah, he can't help being totally awesome, it runs in the family," Dean told her, eyebrows waggling. "It's this inherited trait – we're even more adorable in bed."

"You just can't help yourself, can you?" mused Sam as they headed back to the car.

"Nope," Dean agreed cheerfully as he put RJ into his seat, "The Living Sex God does not, cannot, hide his light under a bushel. You might as well as try to tell a fish to stop swimming, or tell a bird to stop flying, or tell a _Jersey Shore_ wannabe to stop tanning, or a Samsquatch to stop bitchfacing..."

"Jerk," muttered Sam.

The blissful quiet lasted for a grand total of ten minutes before RJ woke up and started to cry.

"It's not fair," complained Sam, who had just been starting to fall asleep in shotgun, "How come he's all adorable when there are other people around, and then when it's just us, he won't settle? It's perverse." He turned around. "You're perverse, RJ."

RJ began to wail in earnest.

"Now look what you've done," scolded Dean, pulling over, "You've upset him."

"What? No!" protested Sam. "A baby doesn't know what 'perverse' means! Besides, he's your kid, which means he'd probably take it as a compliment, anyway." He sighed, and headed for the trunk.

He watched Dean change RJ again. "He has to get tired soon, right?" he asked hopefully with a yawn, eyeing the ever-increasing laundry bag with a sinking feeling.

"Yeah," Dean sounded as if he was trying to convince himself as much as Sam, "He's fed, he's changed, he'll go back to sleep. We can put in some hours before we have to stop, then we'll hit Bobby's tomorrow. Piece of cake." He buckled RJ back in. "Get some sleep if you need to, baby bro. It's all good from here."

* * *

Oh dear, did he really say that?

Reviews are the Winchester Of Your Choice Squealing And Peeling Off Their Shirt Beside The Highway Of Life!*

*Alternatively, you may have a) Castiel peeling off his coat or b) Crowley peeling off his tie, or c) another chocolate spanner. I'm having the spanner.


	9. Chapter Nine

If you could all tell Nathaniel how much you'd like to see him develop some sort of plot - after all, he is a Plot Bunny - we might even get a narrative out of this fluffy little bastard...

* * *

**Chapter Nine**

The Winchesters had been essentially living on the road pretty much for as long as either of them could remember. Crossing multiple state lines in a day on the way to a job, stopping only for gas, food or roadside donut vans, was something they had become inured to as children (although the stopping for donut vans was something that only started once John had handed the Impala over to Dean).

Find a bar to hustle some pool, drink until comfortably fuzzy, fall into bed some time after midnight (with or without female company), get up early and hit the road, drive for twelve hours, find another cruddy motel, and repeat. It was how they rolled. The haul from Washington to South Dakota was one that they could have expected to cover in two days. So it was natural for them to expect that, while RJ slept, they could put in some hours.

The hours they put in while RJ slept were exactly 0.97.

"Hmmmnrf?" Sam started awake, having barely dozed off. Suppressing a sigh, he turned around to see Lars licking at RJ's face, whilst the grumbling child gummed at one of Lemmy's floppy ears. "Dean, your kid is eating your dog. Again."

"I'm on it," replied Dean listlessly, flicking the indicator as he looked for a place to pull over.

"I wonder if it's because he's feeling carsick," muttered Sam, tapping at his phone, "And chewing on something makes him feel better. Or it could be teething – is he old enough for that? Maybe it's wind. Or he could need to eat more. I really need to read more about this…"

RJ hiccupped, burped enormously, spit up some of his last feed, and smiled widely, flapping his arms and squalling for his father's attention.

"Wind, then," sighed Dean, glancing into the mirror and smiling.

"Hey, stop that!" yapped Sam as he grabbed the wipes and turned to clean RJ's face, competing with the dogs. "That's gross! Aaaargh!" Lars went from cleaning RJ's face to opportunistically kissing his Alpha. "Oh, yuck!"

RJ squealed, smiled, and spit up on Sam's hand.

"Yeeeerg!" went Sam, wiping at himself with another wipe.

"Hey, don't use up the wipes," instructed Dean, getting out and opening the door. RJ waved his hands and reached eagerly for his father. "Hey there, little guy," Sam watched the doting smile spread over Dean's tired face again, "We need to bleed the fuel line?" RJ babbled happily, patted Dean's face, and spit up on him. "Oh, uh, I guess that's a yes."

Wordlessly Sam headed for the trunk and fished out one of the cloth diapers – "So you do NOT use one of my shirts, jerk" – for Dean to use while he walked up and down, jiggling RJ, until the child appeared to have stopped burping.

"Dean! Your kid is bubbling! Did he eat soap?"

"It's just a kid thing, Sam."

"Well, it's disturbing. Here," Sam said briskly, reaching for the cloth, "Give me that, and your shirt, I'll put 'em in the laundry bag. The alarmingly expanding laundry bag… "

"Nah, it's okay," Dean decided, dabbing most of the stain off his shirt and handing the cloth to Sam.

"Dean, you got baby spit-up on your shirt!" Sam yelped.

"It's only a little bit," Dean said dismissively, "Nobody will notice."

"I'll notice!" said Sam. "It'll smell!"

"No worse than the rest of him," shrugged Dean, sniffing as RJ make a querulous noise. "Speaking of which, I think it's changing time."

"Again?" whined Sam. "This kid is a sieve! Everything goes straight through!"

"He's a baby," Dean told him, jiggling RJ and booping his nose, "They do that. Come on, tiger," he headed for the trunk. "Hey, come and watch this, Uncle Francis, you might have to do this sometime."

"No," Sam stated firmly, "No, I am not, NOT going to change diapers. I'm his uncle. Uncling duties do NOT include diapers. All I'm supposed to do at this stage is take photos, and make encouraging noises. I'm not supposed to have any supervisory capacity until he's speaking English, toilet trained, using cutlery and bathing himself, then all I'm supposed to do is fill him up with cola drinks and red candy full of artificial additives, rev him into a shrieking terror and hand him back…"

Sam let out a little yip as Dean grabbed him by the collar and towed him to the trunk.

"Come on, for a guy who was so keen on education, don't be such a pussy," Dean said, "Now, cleaning a kid is a bit like cleaning a firearm, you gotta get everything ready to hand before you start…"

Ignoring Sam's protest, Dean pushed RJ into his baby brother's arms, and began to set up the 'change table' on the trunk lid. RJ babbled in greeting, grabbed a handful of Sam's hair and pulled, then dribbled on his shirt before sinking his gums into the plaid fabric.

"Ow! Oh, eeew, Dean, your kid is eating me again!"

"Well, I'll show you how to feed him later. Don't let him suck on any buttons. Now, the gentle art of the diaper change. First, catch your baby. Sam…"

"What?"

"Open your eyes, dude, you're supposed to be watching this."

"I hate you… JESUSHCHRIST WHATISTHATSHIT? !"

"Yup, that's what it is, bro."

"No, I mean, yeah, I mean, that's seriously toxic waste!"

"That's why he's excreted it, Sam."

"Oh, God, is it supposed to be that colour? That can't be right! What happens, does it go on vacation to Wisconsin between his mouth and his ass?"

"Don't be ridiculous. Nobody goes on vacation to Wisconsin. Now, first we gotta clean this up – these wipes are good, we never had these when we had you, they weren't readily available and they were too expensive – here, why don't you have a try?"

"Not without a pair of asbestos gloves, and a hazchem suit."

"Sissy."

"Er, are you supposed to pick kids up by their ankles like that?"

"I'm not picking him up, just getting his legs out of the way."

"Ohhhh, that is so disgusting…"

"Nothing I didn't do for you a thousand times. Pass me the new one, then, can you do that without fainting?"

"Jerk." Sam scowled and reached for the new diaper. RJ, apparently enjoying the freedom of diaperlessness even in the cold air, giggled, kicked his legs, and then did what baby boys have been doing to unwitting diaper changers since diapers were invented…

"AAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAARGH!" Sam dropped the diaper, yodeling with horror, and jumped backwards.

"Nice shootin, Tex," Dean smiled at RJ as he prepared to install the clean diaper.

"DEAN!" shrieked Sam, with a completely new Bitchface™ that conveyed utter horror but was too inarticulately outraged to have a title, "DEAN YOUR KID JUST PEED ON ME!"

"He's a baby," Dean grinned, "They do that too."

"HE PEED ON ME, DEAN!" Sam repeated, waving his arms in agitation, "OH MY GOD I HAVE JUST BEEN PEED ON!"

"Wet wipe?" asked Dean solicitously, offering the packet.

Sam grabbed a handful of wipes, and one of the cloth diapers, and began to swap frantically at himself. "He got me," he moaned, "It's on me, it's gone through my shirt, Oh God, it went DOWN MY SHIRT…"

"You did it to me plenty of times, until I learned to dodge," Dean informed his brother. "Nobody ever died from getting peed on during a diaper change, Sam."

"There's a first time for everything," wailed Sam, "That kid is destined for a career in a Fire Brigade somewhere. Ohhhh, I'm contaminated…"

"Come on, Francis," Dean laughed, "Don't be so precious – you're not made of sugar, you're not going to dissolve or anythi- eeeeeeep!" He was so absorbed in teasing his brother and enjoying his discomfort that he had momentarily taken his eye of RJ, who apparently still had a bit left in the tank. "Sonofabitch!" he yapped in surprise.

RJ giggled again, and kicked his legs.

"Yeah, yeah, you got me good," Dean humphed, snatching the cloth from his brother to dab at his neck, "Full points for marksmanship, little dude."

"Feel my pain," Sam giggled in a voice that teetered between gloating and hysteria as he performed his roadside Striptease Of The Discombobulated Sasquatch act once more. A passing rig honked in appreciation.

"Well, whaddyaknow," smiled Dean, "I think that was trucker chick from our lunch stop…"

"Oh God, I can smell it on me," moaned Sam, "I'm polluted! I need to shower!"

Dean frowned. "Sam, we've covered a grand total of…" he peered in at the Impala's dash, "Shit, not quite 120 miles today. You don't need to shower."

"Yes I do," asserted Sam, "And you need to rest. Neither of us slept much last night. Your eyes are crossing as you drive."

"I'm fine," grunted Dean automatically.

"Well, I'm not," humphed Sam, yawning to make his point. He knew that Dean would never want to admit to his baby brother just how bone tired he clearly was – oh, he was good at trying to hide it, but the tells were there, and Sam was a keen student of Deanology who had completed years of fieldwork from the time he was a child himself – and he knew that calling Dean on it would only result in more stubborn denials. Sometimes, you caught more Deans with puppy dog eyes than with bitchfaces. "I'm really tired, Dean. Can we stop?"

"Yeah, okay, Princess Francis," Dean muttered with enough token exasperation to protect his big brotherness, "You need your asses' milk bath and your beauty sleep, we'll stop."

Sam kept his grin to himself, and started tapping at his phone. "Great! I'll find us a place with a laundry."

**...oooooOOOOOooooo... ...oooooOOOOOooooo... ...oooooOOOOOooooo... ...oooooOOOOOooooo... ...oooooOOOOOooooo...**

The middle-aged woman at the desk of the motel where they stopped gushed over RJ. In what seemed to be a pattern he was quickly establishing, as soon as he had an audience, the baby stopped any grizzling and cooed and giggled happily at the new person he encountered.

"Oh, he's just adorable!" she trilled, as RJ banged on the desk bell and shrieked with laughter at the noise. "How's he sleeping?" she asked with a knowing look.

"Still a bit unsettled," Dean conceded with a wan smile. RJ reached up and grabbed Dean's nose with a giggle.

"Enjoy it while it lasts," she sighed fondly, "You won't believe how fast they grow up!"

"That's what I'm hoping," muttered Sam as she handed over a key.

"Don't use all the hot water," instructed Dean, as Sam practically sprinted for the bathroom, "There's three of us need to wash now!"

"Can't talk, bathing," called Sam cheerfully, "Oh, hello shower, I'm so happy to see you…"

"Hey, if you're gonna jerk off in there, keep your voice down," directed Dean, "We got a kid with us now!"

"Jerk."

When Sam emerged from the bathroom, RJ was on the dogs' blanket curled up with Lars and Lemmy, and booping them alternately on their noses, while Dean sorted through RJ's stuff.

"I'm sure I've read somewhere that small children should not be left unsupervised with dogs," Sam ventured doubtfully.

"It's okay," Dean reassured him, "He hasn't shown any signs of hurting them."

"Uh, I think you're supposed to worry about that the other way around," Sam told him.

Dean glanced at the puppy pile; RJ was sucking on one of Lemmy's paws while Lars 'groomed' him. "Well, they can supervise each other," he shrugged.

"That is so unhygienic," complained Sam.

"So, don't join in," Dean said, "Anyway, now you're purified, go do laundry, while the real men get cleaned up."

"Yeah, yeah," huffed Sam, "Toxic waste decontamination detail deploying now."

He took his laptop with him, but just ended up taking a brief nap that only left him feeling more tired before returning to hear the strains of the Oinker Stoinker song coming from the bathroom. Lars and Lemmy sat guard warily outside the door, apparently grateful that they weren't required to bathe too.

"You gotta get him his own bathtime toy," asserted Sam, as RJ squealed and whacked Oinker Stoinker into the water.

"The boys don't mind sharing," Dean assured him, joining his son in the wave-making. "Whoa, surf's up, RJ! Wheeeeee! Ulp-_graaaaaak_," he suddenly spluttered as RJ sent a spray of water at him. "Okay, well done," Dean wheezed, "That's good aim. And my mouth was open, so you get extra points…"

Dean made a big brother decision to order pizza rather than going out again, although his was getting cold by the time he'd fed, burped, wiped and changed RJ.

"Nyrrrrrow!" he went, RJ sitting in his lap as he zoomed Oinker Stoinker past his son's entranced face again, "The Giant Flying Blue Pig was the most deadly weapon in the air war over Europe! It was fitted with machine guns, missiles, and atomic disintegration rays! It was unbeatable in dogfights! Ack-ack-ack-ack-ack-ack!"

RJ laughed and grabbed for the death-dealing soaring swine.

"How come you're getting him ready for bed," asked Sam, "But he seems to be winding up for some serious playtime?"

"It's a kid thing," sighed Dean, banking Oinker Stoinker for another strafing run. "They get their second wind, just as you're ready to collapse. You just gotta wear 'em out. Ack-ack-ack-ack-ack blaaaaaaaaaaaa! That was the atomic disintegration ray," he added helpfully.

"What about an atomic fall asleep ray?" enquired Sam. "Were these airgoing pigs ever fitted with those?"

RJ clapped his hands and smiled hugely. The effect on Dean was instant; he redoubled his porcine aerobatic efforts.

"I guess that's a no," sighed Sam.

Twenty minutes later, Dean was still piloting Oinker Stoinker, RJ was still laughing, and Sam was ready to chew through his own arm.

"Look," he snapped, "There can't be anything left to fire on! It's gotta be scorched earth by now!"

Dean stopped mid-strafe, and looked at RJ, who beamed back. "Yeah, it's not really working, is it?" he conceded. RJ babbled querulously, and whacked Dean in the midriff. "Oof! Quite a jab you got there, mister," he smiled. "Maybe something less exciting, though, you know, more soothing."

"If you dare try to sing a Metallica lullaby, I will end you," growled Sam. "What about reading?"

Dean considered that. "It frequently worked with you," he agreed, "What do you think, RJ?" He looked around. "Uh, I dunno if we have anything that's suitable," he said sheepishly, "He's probably a bit young for the readers' stories in 'Hustler'…"

"I'm on it," Sam interrupted, tapping furiously at his laptop, "There's gotta be something online, fairy tales, classic children's literature…" he blinked, clicked a link, and smiled. "Here," he grinned, turning the screen around so that Dean could read to RJ, "Try this."

"Okay." Dean cleared his throat. "You comfy there, little dude?" RJ peered curiously up at Dean, then reached for the laptop. "Nuh-uh, you don't want to touch that, the she-bear will defend her cub to the death if you get too close…"

"Jerk," muttered Sam under his breath.

"…So, this is what we call a bedtime story. I read a story, and you go to bed. This is the arrangement." He settled RJ in his lap, and began to read.

"The cats nestle close to their kittens now.  
The lambs have laid down with the sheep.  
You're cozy and warm in your bed, my dear.  
Please go the fuck to sleep…"

As Sam watched RJ yawn and nod, he felt his own eyes trying to close. The whole travelling with a small child thing was exhausting. They needed to hole up somewhere, and take stock, have just a little bit of time to adjust – but how they were supposed to cover the distance to Bobby's like this was beyond him. According to his rough calculation, at their current rate of travel, it would take around two weeks.

At the end of the second reading, Dean finally gave him a thumbs up and put a sleeping RJ into his crib.

"There," he said proudly, "Out like a light."

"Let's hope he can stay that way for a while," said Sam wistfully.

"Well, it's been his first day on the road, the first full day of the rest of his life," Dean reasoned. "He was bound to be unsettled today. He'll probably sleep through tomorrow, and be so quiet that we'll start to worry that something is wrong."

"Yeah," agreed Sam, not wanting to burst Dean's bubble.

Nonetheless, he took back his laptop, peered at a map, and, sending out a non-specific prayer to any deity who happened to be listening that he wouldn't need to use it, began to formulate Plan B.

* * *

If you haven't encountered the story 'Go The Fuck To Sleep', go and look it up on YouChoob. Noni Hazelhurst (who used to be on the children's program _Playschool_, and reads it in the style she used for story time) and Samuel L. Jackson do wonderful renditions.

Incidentally, I have a completely hilarious joke for you:

Q: In the name 'Jesus H Christ', what does the H stand for?  
A: Haploid.

Ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha!

Ahem.

Reviews are the Winchester Of Your Choice Reading You A Bedtime Story After The Busy Day Of Life!


	10. Chapter Ten

Poor Sam isn't coping with the whole bodily fluids thing very well, I acknowledge that. Maybe in the Jimiverse, something happened in the Cage, for example, Lucifer hogged the TV remote (since he insisted that ii was _his_ Cage, therefore it was _his_ AV system) and on one occasion he wanted to watch _Dr Strangelove_ over and over and over again, and Sam was left subliminally traumatised...

* * *

**Chapter Ten**

"The owls fly forth from the treetops.."

Both the Winchesters were old friends with sleep deprivation.

"Through the air, they soar and they sweep..."

From the demands of a job, insomnia coincident with injury and pain (for the damaged one and the one sitting watch), sleeplessness through anxiety over a hundred different things from a missing engine to a missing sibling, they'd both had plenty of practice at running on empty for days, or weeks, getting barely enough rest to keep the body from collapsing and the brain from spontaneously detonating, then finding some more in the tank just because it was necessary. It was all part and parcel of being a Hunter, and being a Winchester.

"A hot crimson rage fills my heart, love..."

Yet somehow, the current situation was leaving them feeling drained in ways they couldn't articulate clearly.

"For real, shut the fuck up and sleep..."

In fact, thought Sam, getting a mental picture of his brain quietly liquefying and pouring out his ears like so much melted ice-cream, it was becoming more difficult to articulate anything, except using small words and short sentences. It was as thought the child was some sort of psychic vampire, feeding off their own energy and vitality, and yet it had only been two days since RJ had arrived. It was... he searched for an appropriate word, and slowly rolled over to gaze blearily at Dean.

"Mrrrrrnramf," he said.

"Mm-hmmm," agreed Dean, yawning hugely, then quickly plastering the desperate smile back onto his face as RJ started to grizzle again. "Oh, hey, sorry, little guy," he apologised brightly, "Didn't mean to make a scary face, Daddy's just tired, okay? Daddy's just very, very tired..."

Baby RJ had better timing than the most ruthless and experienced torturer. He'd gone to sleep, and stayed asleep as the brothers wound down for the night, then went to bed themselves, Sam smiling to see his brother gazing down at RJ with a mixture of doting pride and awe.

"I just can't believe I participated in producing something this cute," Dean said in wonder, stroking RJ's cheek gently. RJ grabbed his father's hand in his sleep, and Sam wondered if Dean's face would split open from smiling.

"Must be a Living Sex God thing," Sam grinned, happy to see his brother look less stressed. Dean fell asleep watching RJ, and Sam fell asleep shortly afterwards.

That happy state of affairs lasted for approximately ninety minutes.

It would make sense for a parent to be attuned to the smallest of whimpers from their child, Sam thought, but it was just unfair that he seemed to be woken up too every time the kid so much as snuffled.

"Hey, tiger," Dean yawned then smiled dotingly as he picked the boy up, "What's up? You wet again?"

RJ grabbed a handful of Dean's shirt and shoved it into his mouth, as simultaneously an astonishingly loud rumble sounded.

"What the hell was that?" asked Sam, also yawning.

"Hungry, then," decided Dean.

"Oh, great," grumbled Sam, "It's just the sound of the boilers firing up in the chemical munitions factory."

"I got this, Sam," Dean told him, "Go back to sleep."

"Yeah, right," Sam muttered, pulling the blankets over his head, "Don't use my shirts for your spit up cloths, jerk." Against all odds, he managed to nod off again to the sounds of RJ slurping happily on his bottle.

The trouble was, RJ was seriously high maintenance.

He woke up and cried because he was wet. He woke up and cried because he was hungry. He woke up and cried because...

"What's wrong now?" sighed Sam petulantly.

"I don't know," Dean had a note of worry in his voice, "He's not wet, he can't be hungry again, I burped him real good so it can't be wind. Maybe he's just lonely."

"Can't he be lonely during daylight hours like normal people?" whined Sam.

"I don't think babies count as normal people," Dean suggested, sitting RJ on his lap, which seemed to stem the grizzling somewhat. "Is that it, little guy? You feeling lonely? Are you missing your Mom? I can relate to that, it's tough." RJ wanted to cuddle, and kept up the droning monotone of unhappiness as Dean gestured to Sam for the laptop. "Why don't we have a story again, huh?"

Which is how they found themselves sitting with a small child, reading a profane children's story, in the wee small hours.

"It's not working," moaned Sam, sitting up, "This is the third time through, it's not working this time!"

"Well, maybe he's bored with it," suggested Dean.

"How?" demanded Sam. "He's only six months old!"

"You got bored," shrugged Dean, "I'd make up a story to tell you, and if I tried to tell you the same one again, you'd wave your fists and turn bright red, then shit yourself. Here," he reached for the blue squeaky dog toy and threw it to Sam, "You pilot Oinker Stoinker for a bit, I'll find something else."

"Deeeeeean," Sam whined, but then he saw the look on his brother's tired face, and relented. "Sure, bro," he said, hauling himself out of bed, "Give me the pig." He glanced enviously at Lars and Lemmy – the young dogs were still curled together on their blanket, apparently oblivious to the grizzling of the newest pup of their pack. "Right, what do I do? Hey!" He let out a yelp of protest as Dean deposited RJ on his lap. The baby looked up at him, and then went for the mouthful of shirt.

"I guess at least it wasn't my hair this time," sighed Sam, picking up Oinker Stoinker

"Just zoom it around," instructed Dean, sitting on his bed and tapping at the laptop, "And don't forget the running commentary."

"Right, right," Sam paused thoughtfully, then cleared his throat uncertainly as RJ looked up at him warily. "Er, hi there again, RJ," he smiled tentatively, "Your Dad has asked me to take over, uh, flying the pig while he looks for another story. So, er, I'm your Uncle Sammy, and I will be your pig pilot for this, um, flight, I guess."

RJ's eyes went from Dean back to Sam with an expression that was decidedly dubious.

"Okay then. The pig is usually a terrestrial quadruped, and is not normally known for its, uh, aerodynamic properties, or indeed its aviational tendencies. In fact, as far as science knows, no species of pig has ever been observed performing aerobatics in the wild..."

RJ paused in his monotone babbling.

"However, the domesticated species known as, um, _Oinkus Stoinkus Dogtoyus_, is distinguished from other breeds by, uh, its small size, its atypical blue pigmentation, its unusually regular round markings, and its distinctive cry, which is rendered onomatopoeically as 'whonk whonk', which I shall now demonstrate..."

He gave Oinker Stoinker a squeeze; the squeaky pig produced the appropriate sounds.

RJ was entranced, his face a picture of rapt attention.

"Oinkologists have been unable to determine exactly what the purpose of the animal's peculiar call is. Dr Dean Winchester suggested that it was in order to attract a mate, whereas I incline to the theory that it is expressly intended to assist in locating the toy in the dark when standing on it, as the honking noise is quite loud and may be adequate to disguise the swearing as the, uh, stander-onner swears about turning an ankle. Dr Lemmy and Dr Lars have decided that the honking is purely for entertainment purposes, and also provides stress relief in the case of mental trauma caused by being required to bathe..." He honked on the toy again for good measure.

RJ smiled, and waved his hands. Sam found himself smiling back.

"Well, whaddya know," he said to the child, "You like documentaries better than action films."

RJ giggled, and made a demanding noise as he whacked at Oinker Stoinker.

"You want more, huh?" Sam felt the goofy grin widen on his face. "Okay, well, the, uh, aeronautical aspects of the Flying Blue Squeaky Pig are not immediately apparent – its appearance does not suggest that it is particularly aerodynamic, yet powered by its one humanpower engine, it is able to perform aerial manoeuvres not usually seen in pigs. For example, it can hover at an altitude of one arm's length above the bed, like so, with or without helicopter noise sound effects..."

RJ blew a raspberry of appreciation.

"Hey, Dean," Sam burbled as happily as his nephew, "I think I'm getting the hang of this, why don't we just look up pigs on Wikipedia and read to... him..."

Dean had fallen sideways onto his bed, still holding the laptop, and was snoring gently.

"Okaaaay," Sam wiggled carefully so he could hang on to RJ while he snagged the laptop, "We don't need to bother Daddy, we'll just do it ourselves... right, here we are. 'A pig is any of the animals in the genus _Sus_, within the _Suidae_ family of even-toed ungulates'...and there's a picture..."

By the time they got as far as the picture of bearded pigs, RJ was asleep.

Sam carefully put him back into his crib, then picked Dean's feet up onto his bed and pulled the blankets over him before returning to his own bed. Then he wrote an email, and sent a short text message before going back to sleep.

**...****oooooOOOOOooooo****... ...****oooooOOOOOooooo****... ...****oooooOOOOOooooo****... ...****oooooOOOOOooooo****... ...****oooooOOOOOooooo****... **

Early morning arrived all too quickly. RJ was awake and babbling alertly. The dogs were sniffing and frisky and clearly just happy to be alive right there and then. Sam wanted to strangle them both.

"Do you have to bounce around being so annoyingly happy?" he groaned to Lars as the dog bounded up to him for the good morning greeting ritual of ear scratching.

"Good morning to you too, Little Miss Sunshine," said Dean, already cradling RJ and giving him his morning feed.

Sam turned to his brother, who was sporting impressive dark bruises under his eyes. "If I didn't know different," he pronounced, "I'd think you were a zombie, and decapitate you."

"If I didn't know different, I'd let you do it," sighed Dean with a yawn.

"I think I might feel better if my head wasn't attached to the rest of me," confided Sam, "Feels like some asshole has drilled into it during the night, pulled out my brain, and replaced it with yoghurt."

"That might explain your freaky eating habits," suggested Dean, "Why don't you go get us coffee?"

"Nnnnnngr," complained Sam, "That will involve getting out of bed."

"Well, yeah," agreed Dean, "But your other options are A) finish feeding and burping and changing RJ while I go get coffee, or B) dying in a tragic crash when I wrap the Impala around a tree, or possibly C) being found dead from having preservative-free baby food shoved into every available orifice while I plead not guilty by way of being caffeine depleted to a point where I could not be responsible for my actions."

"Can you arrange it so that I die outright when we crash?" asked Sam hopefully. Dean tossed a boot casually through the air to land on his brother's chest. "Ooof! Ow! Alll right, all right, I'm going," he slowly dragged himself from bed and began to dress. "Don't be surprised if I come back with decaf for you, jerk." He took the keys and headed for the door. "You know, I could just get us a big jar of instant and a couple of spoons."

"Coffee now, bitch."

Muttering mutinously, Sam took the keys and headed out.

While he was waiting for a bored-looking teen to make the two supersized BrainBomb coffees, his cell buzzed with a message:

_**HAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHA!**_

_**OK**_

He let out a small noise of relief – Plan B had a green light.

**...****oooooOOOOOooooo****... ...****oooooOOOOOooooo****... ...****oooooOOOOOooooo****... ...****oooooOOOOOooooo****... ...****oooooOOOOOooooo****... **

The logistics of travelling anywhere with a baby were, Sam decided, probably something that should be handed over to experts, like senior military officers who had plenty of experience with multiple deployments overseas. The amount of _stuff_ that was the bare minimum seemed to be increasing each time they packed the car, whilst they were simultaneously running out of things. And, he noticed with an inward sigh, the laundry bag was starting to fill up again.

"So, we ready to rock and roll?" Dean asked RJ, strapping him into his seat. RJ looked thoughtful, then blew a large bubble of… Sam didn't want to think about it too much.

"How about I drive for a while?" offered Sam.

"I'm fine," Dean replied on autopilot, letting Lemmy into the back then sliding in behind the wheel.

"It's just that I thought maybe RJ might be a bit more settled if you were next to him," Sam went on guilelessly, knowing that 'You look like shit, Dean' would be about as effective as scientific evidence at a Creationist convention.

"Nah, he's fine," Dean added in a voice that was just a touch too brittle and bright. He turned to smile at RJ, who was studiously trying to put one of his own feet into his mouth. "Aint ya, little guy?" He pulled them out of the lot as Sam tried to decide whether eating your own feet was better or worse than chewing on a dog's paw. "He's fed, he's burped, he's changed, he's got Oinker Stoinker to keep him company back there – he really has taken a shine to the little blue guy – and he's got the dogs to amuse him. Today, we cover some ground, guys!"

And they did.

For approximately twenty minutes.

"It's just the carsickness thing again, I think," Sam offered as soothingly as he could, whilst Dean held and jiggled the grizzling child. RJ obligingly spit up on Dean's collar to demonstrate that he was right. "You want me to get him a teething cracker? They're supposed to be good for upset stomachs in particular, and just upsets in general."

"Yeah, yeah, a cracker would be good," Dean replied worriedly, clearly trying not to transmit his unrest to his son. Apparently thought, RJ's radar was something he'd inherited from his father, because he refused to settle. "Hey, it's okay, dude," Dean tried to reassure him, "Uncle Sammy will get the crackers – they make you feel better, he says so, so it must be true…"

He took the box from Sam, gave a cracker to RJ, then put one in his own mouth. "Oh, yeah," he garbled around it, "I feel more settled already…"

Unfortunately, RJ didn't.

"There's something wrong," Dean muttered as he changed RJ's diaper, "There's something wrong with him."

"Well, it has to be a hell of a culture shock," Sam pointed out, "You said it yourself. Maybe he misses his Mom."

As if on cue at the word, RJ began to wail, and it didn't stop once the diaper change was complete.

"Oh, RJ," crooned Dean tiredly, "How do I make it better, huh?"

"I think he might be reacting to your, er, tenseness, bro," Sam suggested tentatively.

"I am not tense!" hissed Dean angrily, "Oh, RJ, I'm sorry, fella, it's just your Uncle Sammy being a bitch…"

That didn't cut any ice with RJ, who just howled louder.

"Oh, come on, it's okay," Dean soothed desperately, sounding anything but okay himself, "Oh, God, why can't I make him settle?"

In the way that only an overtired child can do, RJ ignored all his father's shushings, soothings, cuddlings and rockings, and cried harder.

"Look, er, why don't we just, just, you know, get, uh, underway again?" said Sam tentatively.

"We can't!" Dean sounded as though he was about to burst into tears as well, "I can't just put him down like this!"

"Well, he's gotta run out of steam sometime, right?" asked Sam, but Dean was having none of it. With his own child doing the screaming, his usual stoicism seemed to evaporate.

"Oh, God, what am I doing wrong?" Dean wailed, "RJ, what's wrong? I'm hopeless at this!"

"Uh, look, Dean," Sam began, "I think this probably just seems worse than it is because you're tired, and maybe over-reacting a bit..."

"I'm hopeless," repeated Dean, "What sort of Dad am I if I can't even stop him crying? I'm a terrible Dad! I'm sorry, little guy, I'm so sorry..."

Sam decided that it was time to put Plan B into action. In a movie, this was where somebody stepped up and gave the person about to have hysterics a hearty slap - he couldn't do that, but he could do something equally effective...

"Okay, stop right there," he snapped, "You are full of shit!"

Dean looked at Sam as if he'd just announced a plan to change his name to Miriam and join a convent.

"Yeah, you heard me," he went on, "You are full of shit! Huh, and you tell me I'm the drama queen..."

Dean just blinked in disbelief. Even RJ was startled into silence.

"Look, Dean," Sam tried for a less exasperated tone, "You may have a lot of failings, but kid-raising is not one of them! I know from personal experience how awesome you are at it!"

"You think so?" asked Dean dubiously.

"Totally," Sam stated firmly, "You were barely a kid yourself when you started raising me, and you did a great job. You are a fantastic kid-raiser, and you are going to be an awesome Dad, and you are going to raise an awesome kid, because hey, he's the offspring of the Living Sex God, how could he be anything else?"

"You... you really believe that?" Dean suppressed a snuffle.

"Absolutely," grinned Sam. "You might be full of shit, but with this, you _are_ the shit, bro."

"Thanks, Sam," Dean managed a small smile. "Hey, look, he's settled down!"

"Of course he has," Sam rolled his eyes. "Look, why don't you try sitting in the back with him for a little while, just until he goes to sleep? It's gotta be worth a try. He seems more settled when he's with you."

"Okay," sighed Dean, a small note of despair in his tone, "Would you like that, RJ? Huh? You want Daddy to sit with you for a while?" RJ hiccupped, but managed a small smile of his own.

Once they were underway again, Sam reached into his bag of dirty tricks: he slid Metallica into the tape deck.

"Hey, if it works for you, maybe it'll work for him," he shrugged as Dean's eyebrows shot up.

Ten minutes later, father and son were snoozing blissfully; Lemmy let out a contented whuff and joined them.

Sam turned to Lars, who was sitting in shotgun. "He'll probably try to kill me for this," he confided in the young dog, "But we're never going to make it to Bobby's like this. Not without blood on the walls. We need some time to… stop."

The dog gave him an expression that, in his daze of fatigue, he thought he could read clearly:

_Seek forgiveness rather than permission. It usually works for me._

"Yeah, it does," Sam smiled at his dog.

Checking in the mirror that his big brother was still asleep, he took the next exit that turned them South; they hit the state line of Oregon a bit over an hour later.

* * *

Reviews are the Soothing Teething Crackers To Chomp On When Beset By Carsickness As You Travel Down The Bumpy Road Of Life!


	11. Chapter Eleven

**Chapter Eleven**

Sam finally pulled the Impala off the road, and into a drive beside a pick-up that had a kiddy seat in the back and a small pet crate beside it. RJ was apparently going to set a personal best for staying asleep, so he opened the car door as quietly as possible, then made his way to the house with Lars at his heels.

The knock on the door sounded far too loud, and he turned briefly to see whether the noise had woken Dean or RJ. He turned back when he heard the door open.

And let out a small shriek as he began to reach for a weapon, then stopped himself.

"Oh, er," he stammered, "Sorry. Hi. Um."

Ronnie cocked an eyebrow at him.

"It's just that, for a moment, you kind of looked, you know," he began, taking in the bags under her eyes and waving a hand vaguely at the wild tangle of her hair that was usually tidied away in a businesslike braid.

"I look like shit," she stated bluntly.

"Well," Sam continued, trying for tact then giving up, "The immediate word that jumped into my head was, uh, 'Gorgon'…"

"I've had worse," sighed Ronnie, "If the worst thing I have to deal with in a day is not having time to do my hair, that's a good day." She peered past him, looking towards the Impala. "So, where's the brat? And where's his kid?"

"Asleep," he replied, his tone conveying just what a relief that was.

"Fine," she grunted, "Come on in, then."

"I'll just go get Dean," he began, turning as spoke, but she grabbed his arm.

"No," she said levelly, "Come on in."

"But Dean and RJ…"

"Are asleep," she said firmly, "Lesson Number One: Let sleeping babies lie, Sam. There's no need to tiptoe around 'em, but once the sprog is out cold, leave 'em that way, unless there's imminent threat of a direct nuclear strike, and only then if it's likely to be more than a megaton in yield. They're perfectly safe."

Sam looked back to the Impala. Dean and RJ snoozed on, while Lemmy sat silent but watchful as sentinel.

"I guess so," he smiled.

"So, come on in," she repeated, "I'll put on coffee, and you can fill me in on what the fuck."

"Are you breastfeeding Connor?" asked Sam anxiously, "Because if you are, it's probably not a good idea to drink coffee, I was reading this site when I was trying to find out about formula and stuff, and…"

A nearly subsonic rumble of a growl that travelled to him through the floor brought him up short. Ronnie was either smiling unpleasantly, or snarling politely.

"Sam," she said in a carefully even voice, "Rule Number Two: do not presume to instruct a mother on how to raise her pup unless you are her consulting paediatrician, or you find her assaulting it with a blunt instrument."

"But…" he protested.

"Sam," she went on, "How many pregnancies have you carried to parturition?"

"Er, none," he answered.

"Do you know what it's like to feel as if somebody is tearing part of your guts out through a teeny tiny little orifice down south?" she pressed.

"No, uh, no, I don't," he shook his head.

She did The Smile again. "Would you LIKE to?"

"Um," he smiled back sheepishly, almost completely sure that she was not serious.

"Good," she grunted, satisfied, "Now, coffee. Not just for my benefit; I can't help but notice that you are not, frankly, looking your usual energetic and charmingly boyish dimpled self. In fact, if I'm going to be Medusa, you are definitely Stheno or Eurale."

"I did my hair this morning," he complained half-heartedly.

"Stand a little closer to the brush next time," she instructed. :"It's something of a pity you're not an actual Gorgon; I have a distinct feeling that right now I'd enjoy getting stoned. Come on."

**...oooooOOOOOooooo... ...oooooOOOOOooooo... ...oooooOOOOOooooo... ...oooooOOOOOooooo... ...oooooOOOOOooooo...**

"Hell's bells," was all Ronnie could say, bug-eyed, as the coffee brewed and Sam explained in more detail how RJ had come to be, then arrived suddenly in their lives just a few days ago. "Or, as Bobby would say, God's tits."

"And Satan's toilet tissue," agreed Sam. "The thing is, I'm worried that Dean's being a bit, well, slack about stuff with RJ. Like hygiene."

"He washes him daily?" she asked, handing him a steaming mug. "Feeds him when he's hungry? Changes him when he's wet? Cuddles him when he's upset? Cuddles him just because?"

"Yeah, of course," Sam acknowledged as he followed her to the living room, "But the other day, when he was putting the crib together, and then when he was getting a bottle ready, he put RJ on the floor, on the blanket, with the dogs, and you can't tell me that's…"

As he spoke, his eyes slid sideways to the floor where Lita, Lars and Lemmy's litter-sister, was curled protectively around Connor as he napped. The dog raised her head as Sam entered, then, satisfied that he was not a threat, wagged her tail a few times.

Ronnie followed Sam's gaze, and grinned. "Dean is being practical," she told him. "Anyway, it's quite normal for members of a pack to co-operate in raising pups. They seem to enjoy it. I know Lita does. And Connor certainly likes it."

"Yeah, but, uh, how do I put this?" Sam replied, "Connor is a werewolf. RJ is a human. Well, Aphrodite says he is, so if you don't count the whole Living Sex God thing, he's human."

"Try telling Lars and Lemmy that," she stifled a snort of laughter. "As far as they'll be concerned, he's the youngest pup of their pack. Hey," she chided, "Dean did a pretty good job raising you, yeah?"

"Yeah," Sam agreed with a smile, "He did an awesome job of raising me. But he was a kid raising a kid, and now…"

"Now he's a dad raising a kid," she said firmly, "And I'm betting that, for all his infuriating smug arrogant cockiness, he's intent on doing the best he possibly can for his son."

"Well, yeah," Sam nodded, "But he knows better – we know better – now. I've been trying to do some research, when I can keep my eyes open, anyway, and there are a lot of sites that say…"

"Lesson Number Three," sighed Ronnie, taking a long swig of coffee. "The internet is a great place to find pictures of pissed off cats, long-lost royal family members from Nigeria and, incidentally, some pretty imaginative fanart by people who are addicted to Carver Edlund's 'Supernatural' books." She paused while he let out a small squeak of horror. "I was bored, all right? Seriously, if Bobby EVER finds out about the ones who draw him and Crowley – what has been seen cannot be unseen – but I suggest you don't use it to instruct your brother in kid wrangling. It'll end in tears, Sam. Yours, most likely."

"Uh, okay," he said, not sounding completely convinced.

"Look, I've had six months to figure it out this far," she smiled. "I have figured out from personal experience that if the kid is wearing odd socks because I can barely keep my eyes open long enough to find two socks, let alone make sure they're the same colour, the world doesn't end. If the dishes sit in the sink overnight, and I have chocolate cake for breakfast, the sun still comes up. I let him suck on the dog's toys because it keeps him quiet. I put him in the bath with the dog, if necessary – and I'm not too fussy about whether I use baby wash, or dog shampoo. I stick him and Lita in front of the TV to watch 'Evil Dead II' if I really need to shower, or eat, or just go stand in the backyard for ten minutes, because apparently he loves it. So call CPS. There's theoretical best practice, then there's reality." She peered at him. "You know you got a bit of spit-up on your shirt?"

"Eugh! Where?" Sam looked down and began to paw at the small splodge he hadn't noticed.

"Toughen up, princess," she laughed, "Unless you want to spend your entire life in the laundry, you'll learn to live with the occasional spot."

"Oh, God," Sam dropped his head into his hands, "And I thought we really needed somewhere to stop so that Dean and RJ could adjust…"

From outside, they heard two voices being raised: RJ let out a wail, and Dean yelled 'Saaaaaaaaam!"

"Time to go 'fess up," Ronnie told Sam. "Sounds like they're both hungry. Look on the bright side, if he does kill you, you won't have to wash any more baby clothes."

"Do you have a dog toy I could give to Dean to chew on?" Sam asked plaintively.

**...oooooOOOOOooooo... ...oooooOOOOOooooo... ...oooooOOOOOooooo... ...oooooOOOOOooooo... ...oooooOOOOOooooo...**

Dean offered the minimum resistance to Sam's Plan B required to preserve his manly, fatherly, and big brotherly dignity as Sam hefted bags to bring into the house, and Ronnie steered Dean inside with Lars and Lemmy trotting protectively on either side of him. The sounds of awakened squalling from the living room suggested that Connor was stirring too. Lita remained protectively curled around Connor as her brothers approached submissively, ears and tails down, to sniff at her charge.

"For the record, this was not my idea," growled Dean. jiggling a grizzling RJ.

"For the record, it wasn't mine either," she told him, gruffing briefly to the dogs. "Just try to concentrate on the fact that the fridge here is always full of red meat. Come and get his feed ready."

When Sam returned on the next trip, he saw the three dogs and the two babies lying in a heap together. The dogs whuffed and licked soothingly at the fussing boys, who were clearly ready for a feed. He sighed, winced, and turned away.

"He's definitely yours," commented Ronnie as Dean shook up a bottle of formula. "Those lips and those eyes are the dead giveaway."

"Yeah, he's cute," Dean agreed, smiling, "But he's been pretty hard to settle."

"I wonder if he's teething?" she pondered out loud. "Has he been chewing on much?"

"Only on everything," Dean rolled his eyes as he tested the bottle temperature, "Including Sam. Who doesn't cope with it very well."

"We can have a look then," she announced, not making it a question, as they headed for the living room. "May I?" Dean wasn't certain if the question was addressed to him, or to Lars and Lemmy, but with his nod, she picked up RJ, who stared at her and pulled a face. She let her features change, and her fangs descend, and pulled a face back.

"If you freak my kid out, I will end you," growled Dean, tensing.

RJ squealed with laughter, batting at her face to make her do it again.

"Some days, watching Daddy do the face-thing is all that will get Connor to stop screaming," she shrugged, rubbing a finger over his lower gum, "Ohhh yeah, you got at least one bad boy on the way here. No wonder he's unsettled. Here," she handed RJ to Dean, and the youngster waved his hands and babbled for his bottle, "Fill the tank." She began to unbutton her shirt. I'd better do the same with Connor, if we want peace for a little bit."

**...oooooOOOOOooooo... ...oooooOOOOOooooo... ...oooooOOOOOooooo... ...oooooOOOOOooooo... ...oooooOOOOOooooo...**

"Okay, that's the last of our stuff in the guest room," said Sam, heading into the living room, "So, despite what Dean may say, we're both reall-HOLY SHIT!"

Dean looked up from where RJ was gurgling away with happy little noises. He gave his brother a long look.

"Sam," he began sternly, "Please tell me you are not one of these people who's squeamish about breast-feeding. That's totally 20th century, dude."

"Uh, no, no," gulped Sam.

"Because it's just natural," Dean went on, "And I'm sure that you'd be the first to tell Ronnie that, if it's possible for Mom to do it, it gives Baby the best possible start."

"Uh, yeah, sure, sure," stuttered Sam.

"There's absolutely nothing confrontational about a baby being breast-fed," stated Dean firmly. "Surely you've seen it before?"

"I agree with you," Sam nodded hurriedly, "I've seen women feeding their kids before. The point is, they usually stay, uh, humanoid while they do it..."

The female werewolf, stretched out on the larger sofa with her fluffy pup curled against her and feeding noisily, winked at him."

"She said that Connor usually prefers to shift to feed," Dean explained.

"That could be awkward if you were out in public somewhere," Sam replied dubiously.

"She said it made one of his check-ups decidedly interesting," Dean relayed. "It's all about timing, apparently." He regarded his brother thoughtfully. "You know, I think it might be a good idea for us to be here after all. You clearly need some time to adjust to the situation, Francis."

"Wha-? _I_ need…?" Sam drooped and sighed, deciding that the path of least resistance would be… the least resistant. "Yeah," he agreed, "You're right. Totally."

"Of course I am," Dean beamed with infuriating smugness, "Now, come over here, and sit down."

"Dean," Sam began warily, "The last time you said that, you made me practise holding him. Please tell me you're not going to make me practise holding him."

"I'm not going to make you practise holding him," replied Dean.

"Uh-huh," Sam said dubiously as he sat.

Dean deftly handed RJ to him before his brother could protest. "I'm going to make you practise feeding him," he smiled.

"Huh? Dean!" Sam's protest was even more strident than RJ's, who let out a displeased squall when his bottle was taken away. "No! No! No no no nonono… er, hi again," he smiled weakly at RJ.

Ronnie somehow contrived to snigger in a way that should've been impossible for a canoid.

The boy stared at his uncle, made a demanding noise, and whacked him in the ribs. "Ow! Pushy when he wants a drink, he is so your kid…"

"So, here's your spit-up cloth," Dean wrapped it over Sam's shoulder, "And here's his bottle, now, hold his head up with this arm, and hold the bottle like this… see? He's doin' all the work."

Sam was concentrating so hard on not dropping RJ or the bottle that it took him a couple of minutes to notice…

"Dean, you jerk, this spit-up cloth is one of my shirts again!"

* * *

Every time you leave a review, Nathaniel the plot bunny digs a tunnel into the mountain of fluff under which this story is burying me so that he can dictate some more. *coff coff*


	12. Chapter Twelve

Now that little Randolph has stopped kicking his shins, Nathaniel returns, a little chastened, to continue whispering. I'm sure he'll co-operate in getting the plot bunny Ouija board working to get that deleted scene out of Randolph - hmmmm, bunny dancing, or belly dancing?

* * *

**Chapter Twelve**

Dean lay flat, motionless, patient, with the long practice of an experienced predator stalking its prey. The only thing that moved was his eyes as he held the target of his gaze. It wasn't false modesty; he was damned good at this. He had to be. If you were watching a werewolf and you weren't capable and confident, you were as good as dead...

Connor reached out and poked his nose; RJ laughed and dribbled on the rug.

"Explain to me again why I'm doing this thing called 'tummy time'," Dean asked pointedly.

"Because if you do, I will feed you," replied Ronnie serenely, heading for the kitchen.

"He's looking at me," complained Dean.

"Of course he's looking at you," she called, "You smell delicious – all that lean meat."

"Oh, you flirt," he called back, continuing his staring contest with the two babies. "You got dust bunnies under your sofa."

"Fuck off, Martha Stewart," drifted out from the kitchen.

Dean turned his attention back to the job at hand. "So, I'm lying on the floor, staring at two kids, who seem to find the whole thing hilarious," he said. It was true; the longer he lay there looking at them, the funnier they seemed to find him.

"Dean, this tummy time thing is really important," Sam insisted, tapping at the laptop. "This is all about developing their craniocaudal co-ordination."

"Their what?" He peered at RJ. "Do you even have one of those?" RJ giggled again.

"It's about practising with the muscle groups they'll need to use to sit up, and roll over," Sam relayed as he read, "And that leads to crawling, then later on, walking. So it's really important for a baby at this age to have time on his tummy, holding up his head, and waving his arms and legs around."

"Yeah?" queried Dean.

"Totally," Sam nodded, "It says here, by now, he should be doing push-ups..."

"That's ridiculous!" scoffed Dean, "He's six months old!"

"No, no," went Sam, "Baby push-ups. It's when they use their hands to prop themselves up, so they can look around." He glanced over. "Look, he's doing it now."

"Yeah, so he is," Dean smiled, and RJ laughed too. "These guys are a pretty appreciative audience," he commented.

"Not really," Sam replied airily, "You're a natural – you're always doing shit that makes me want to laugh at you."

"Bitch," muttered Dean. "So, push-ups, and arm and leg waving. Kids do babyrobics. Who knew?" He frowned. "Actually, I do remember you thrashing around when you wanted something; one day, you turned over by yourself, and got such a fright that you screamed. Not a whole lot of thrashing going on here, though."

"Well, maybe you could demonstrate for them," Sam suggested.

"Been a long time since I did tummy time, Sam," grinned Dean. "I don't really remember it."

"No, I mean, wave your arms and legs around," Sam explained. "Give yourself some space, and, you know, show 'em how it's done. It's very important, developmentally," he added.

Dean looked at his son's adoring smile, and beamed back. "All right then," he chirped, "Welcome to Daddy Dean's Thingo-Caudo-Whatever Boot Camp! First off, let's dooooo – arm waving!" He flapped his own hands up and down, as RJ and Connor stared, entranced. "And one, and two, and one, and two, and one, and two, feel free to join in any time you like, guys, and one, and two..."

Connor clapped clumsily, while RJ let out a squeal and began to flap his own arms up and down, grinning gummily.

"And one, and two, and one, and two, feel the burn, ladies!"

"You should do a DVD," laughed Sam, "Do legs! Do legs!"

Dean turned side on, and started kicking his lower legs, which both babies found to be the most uproariously hilarious thing he'd done yet. "And kick! And kick! And kick! Come on, let me see you work that caudo-thingo!"

Babbling excitedly, both of them kicked their feet in the air.

"Oh, God," howled Sam, "All we need is some 80s dance music!"

"Go for broke, guys!" warbled Dean, flapping all four limbs up and down. Connor watched, transfixed, as RJ began to copy his father. Then suddenly, all limbs waggling, he flipped himself over. His face took on a look of astonishment.

"Oh, RJ," Dean scrambled to his side, "Are you okay, fella?"

RJ waved his hands in excitement and squealed piercingly.

"Okaaaaay," I'm guessing that's a yes," Dean muttered. "It's not like I needed hearing in that ear, anyway..."

"Would you kindly murder those kids a little more quietly?" demanded Ronnie when she came back to the living room to announce that lunch was ready, "We'll have BMI peering through the curtains again."

"BMI?" Sam looked puzzled. "Body Mass Index?"

"Bloody Mrs Ingelborg," muttered Ronnie.

"Who's bloody Mrs Ingelborg?" asked Dean.

"The nosiest neighbour in the cosmos," sighed Ronnie, as they seated themselves with their respective offspring in their laps. "Seriously. Her house is all the way over there, but she doesn't let that stop her. She keeps bringing food over, so that she has an excuse to come back and collect the dishes, and ask after Connor. I've taken to hanging the laundry out after dark, because otherwise, she pops up over her fence like a blue-rinsed jack-in-the-box. She keeps a stepladder there permanently, for the express purpose of looking over the fence more easily."

"Creepy," noted Sam.

"You're telling me. I send Andrew over there at zero dark hundred every so often to steal the damned ladder, but she just gets another one. Apparently, she's a world expert on raising children. She'll tell anyone who cares to listen. Or anyone who doesn't."

"Oh," sympathised Sam, "Likes to tell you what you should be doing, huh?"

"I've taken to doing the undertone growling thing to get rid of her," confessed Ronnie. "Last week, I found myself dreaming about tearing her heart out through her sternum. Mind you, it's pretty well upholstered, I'd probably need to use both hands..."

"Couldn't you just eat her?" asked Dean. "You could, you know, it would get rid of all the evidence."

"I couldn't possibly finish her by myself," Ronnie replied, "She's a lady who likes her kartoffelpuffers. Andrew says he saw her doing yoga in her yard wearing lycra once, and after that he couldn't possibly get even a mouthful down without puking."

"Her karto-whats?" queried Dean.

"Her potato pancakes," Sam translated. "Kind of like German hash browns. She may just be a lonely older lady who just loves children," he pointed out, "Who has genuine neighbourly concern for the mother of a young baby."

"Or she could be a witch, or a shtriga, or something," Dean suggested, "A foul unnatural crone, luring unwary victims with piles of potato pancakes."

"She could be," Ronnie conceded, "The last time she brought a dish of 'em over, Andrew would've wagged his tail if he'd had one."

"Aha!" went Dean, "She's working her way into the alpha male's confidence, to get at his offspring. You want us to check it out while we're here?"

"I'm perfectly capable of murdering my own neighbour if necessary, thank you very much," sniffed Ronnie disdainfully, "I'm a mother, not an invalid."

"I don't believe I'm listening to this," complained Sam.

"Don't be so outdated, Sam," Dean insisted, "A woman shouldn't have to give up her career just because she's had kids. It's the twenty-first century, bro."

RJ, nose twitching, reached for Dean's plate, making an interrogative noise.

"Sau-sage," Dean pronounced carefully, "That's called a sau-sage. Sausages are yum-my."

RJ poked at the sausage, sucked on his fingers, then waved his other hand in approval. He turned, peered at Sam's plate, and reached for something else that looked interesting.

"Dean!" yelped Sam, snatching his plate away, "Keep your kid outta my food!"

"To-ma-to," instructed Dean, "That red thing is To-ma-to. Uncle Sammy eats it because he's a gir-ly-man. Tomatoes are yuk-ky"

RJ considered that, turned to Sam, and blew a raspberry.

"Don't come complaining to me if he gets heart disease before he even turns one," sniped Sam.

"Here, check this out," Dean told his son, poking a finger into the ketchup on his plate, "You do this to tomatoes, and it makes them edible." Following his father's lead, RJ poked at the puddle of ketchup, examined his hand closely, then turned and patted Dean's chest, leaving a small sticky red print on his shirt. "Oh, uh, mostly we keep stuff like that for eating, little dude," Dean sighed. "Unless it's chocolate sauce, maybe, you see, one day, you're going to learn about this alien species called 'woman', and then you'll find out that these things can..."

A low, rumbling growl stopped him mid-inappropriate monologue.

"Could you teach me to do that?" pleaded Sam.

"Sure," shrugged Ronnie, "All I gotta do is bite you next full moon."

**...****oooooOOOOOooooo****... ...****oooooOOOOOooooo****... ...****oooooOOOOOooooo****... ...****oooooOOOOOooooo****... ...****oooooOOOOOooooo****... **

Sam was noticing a pattern; trying to eat a meal with a small child in attendance inevitably took much longer than when adults ate unaccompanied, but both RJ and Dean seemed to enjoy it. While he knew that for humans, eating could be very social, he'd never thought of it as such an interactive, and above all tactile, activity.

"Is it a good idea to let him play with his food? I mean, it's not even his," asked Sam tentatively, as RJ held up a piece of bacon and Dean leaned in and made 'nom nom' noises.

"He's just learning to enjoy proper food, Sam," Dean beamed as RJ poked the bacon at his nose. "Mmmmmm, nom nom nom..."

"There'll be plenty of time for cutlery when they're older," Ronnie said dismissively, as Connor prodded suspiciously at a slice of bread, "Plus, it's keeping them entertained and quiet. Anyway, all juvenile predators play with their food."

Sam considered that. "Well, I'm prepared to say that Dean is definitely like some sort of animal when you put a bacon cheeseburger in front of him, but I don't think it counts as predation if the, uh, prey-burger is already dead."

"Kid's a Hunter," grunted Ronnie, shoving a piece of bacon into her own mouth, "I can smell it on him."

Sam didn't miss the look of pride that crossed Dean's face, and decided to let it go.

When lunch was eventually finished, Ronnie looked shrewdly at the yawns around the table, and announced, "Well, in this household, after lunch, we put the little guy down for a nap before he starts to grizzle. I suggest you do the same. And Sam, I also suggest you put his son down with him."

"Ha ha," Dean yawned again, as RJ made a vaguely unhappy noise. "Yeah, sounds like the onset of the tired grizzlies." RJ grabbed a handful of Dean's shirt to stuff into his mouth. "Oh, is it your teeth, little guy?"

"Here," Ronnie went to the refrigerator and took something out, "Give him this."

"What is it?" asked Sam, as RJ accepted the item and sucked on it experimentally.

"Frozen rawhide," she told him, giving one to Connor as well.

"You can't give them dog chews as teething aids!" squawked Sam in an appalled tone.

"Look, Sam," Dean beamed, "He really likes it!" RJ was indeed gumming contentedly on the frozen item.

"It's the cold," Ronnie explained, "Teething critters seem to like the cold against their gums."

"But what if he swallows a piece?" demanded Sam.

"He doesn't have any teeth yet," Ronnie waved a hand airily, "So he can't chew pieces off yet. When Connor's teeth start to come through, I plan to swap to something else."

"Good," humphed Sam, "Because a proper teething toy can be frozen for extra pain relief."

"Yeah," she agreed, "And if that doesn't work, I was thinking of trying frozen bull chews," she went on, "They worked really well for all of my dogs. Except Mako. Mind you, he had teeth like a Great White by the time he was ten weeks old..."

"Gah!" yelped Sam, "Don't you DARE suggest that he feed FROZEN COW DICKS to my nephew!"

"Well, really, they're just like a type of beef jerky," reasoned Dean, "And if he's in pain, and biting on something cold and chewy makes him feel better, I don't think we should dismiss any options out of hand, Sam. Right, RJ?" The boy just hummed contentedly, and gummed on his rawhide.

"Gross!" snapped Sam, standing abruptly and heading for the living room.

"That was naughty," chided Dean. "Despite what we do, you'd be surprised how delicate his sensibilities can be."

"He's just adorable when he flounces, isn't he?" grinned Ronnie. "Seriously though, you two look like you need a nap. Go and curl up with him."

"I don't know," Dean began doubtfully.

"He'll be safe. This place is warded, he'll be with you, and Lemmy will keep watch. Won't you?" Lemmy, who had been silently watching the proceedings in the kitchen with his brother Lars, wagged his tail when he heard his name.

"That's not what I mean," Dean clarified, "What if I roll on him? Or he rolls off the bed?"

Ronnie smiled the smile that lit up her tired face. "Sam's right, you really don't have any faith at all in yourself, do you? Give yourself some credit. I think you'll find that you're a much better dad than you think you are. You shared a bed with Sam, didn't you? kept him safe? And you were just a kid."

Yeah, I guess I did," smiled Dean. "And you could not possibly wiggle around as much as he did," he told RJ, holding him close and standing up, "Seriously, I think your uncle might be part snake, or something..."

Miraculously, both babies were happy enough to be put down to nap – Dean was snoring thirty seconds after RJ nodded off – with their respective three-quarter Hellhounds lying guard on the floor.

"I'm sorry about the bull chew thing," Ronnie said to Sam, returning to the living room where he was tapping at his laptop again. "I didn't mean to gross you out. But if Connor does one of his all-night performances, I cannot promise that I won't try it on my own kid."

"Yeah, I get it," Sam sighed, "If it's not immoral or illegal or threatening to his welfare, and it works, well, I guess you do what you gotta do."

"Yep," she agreed, "You'd be – in fact, I suspect you will be – amazed at how a three-hour bout of non-stop crying will inspire you to improvise."

"Oh, God," shuddered Sam, "I'll try not to think about it."

"You could go and nap too," she suggested, "Take the me-time while you can."

"Actually, I, uh, I couldn't help but notice this," he picked up a book that had been on a side table, "You think you could show me how to do that?"

She looked at him, then smiled. "Sam, you are just full of surprises," she declared. "And yes, I can. In fact, I think it would be a marvellous idea."

* * *

Dean, of course, first encountered bull chews (or pizzle sticks) - yes, they are the dried out dicks of steers or deer - in 'Sonofabitch'. A number of people at my obedience club have said that frozen ones are very effective and nutritionally sound teething aids for puppies. And one has actually owned up to resorting to one with a screaming baby in the wee small hours (also very effective).

Reviews are the Winchester Of Your Choice Leading An Adorable Babyrobics Class On The Living Room Floor Of Life!


	13. Chapter Thirteen

Nathaniel has been whispering helpfully, but before we get on with our story, to assist captainbartholomew in the traumatic process of moving house, here's Dean...

* * *

_**HELPFUL INTERLUDE!**_

**Lampito: **... in a French Maid outfit.

**Dean:** What?

*Lampito taps at the keyboard*

*tappitytappityclickclickENTER*

**Dean:** AAAAAAAARGH! *He attempts to pull his frilly apron down to provide more coverage*

**Lampito:** Now, skip about and dust.

**Dean: **No!

**Lampito:** Fine. *tappitytappityclickclickENTER*

*A giant dust bunny rolls along, and Dean fends it off with his feather duster*

**Sam:** Hahahahahahaha! They'll love you, bro!

**Lampito:** And to forestall leahelisabeth complaining about equal exposure rights, here's Sam, shirtless in a pair of jeans that barely stay up.

*tappitytappityclickclickENTER*

**Sam:** AAAAAAAAAARGH! *He clutches at the waistband of his jeans*

**Lampito: **Now, jump up there, grab that rail, and start doing heaves.

**Sam (still clutching jeans): **No!

*tappitytappityclickclickENTER*

*The floor vanishes from underneath him. With a yelp, he reluctantly grabs at rail.*

**Sam (dangling by one arm while clutching jeans):** No!

**Lampito:** *sigh* Look, it's that, or take a shower with a barely frosted shower screen, and be provided with a teeny tiny towel. Choice is yours, Stretch.

*bitchfacing epically, Sam does some chin-ups*

**Lampito: **Can you both kind of smoulder a bit while you're doing that? The Denizens love That Sort Of Thing.

**Dean and Sam: **Fuck off.

**Lampito: **Classy. I don't know what they see in you, I really don't... oh, Dean, be a dear and fetch the mop, I think leahelisabeth is drooling on the floor again.

_**fin**_

* * *

**Chapter Thirteen**

Dean woke up slowly to the sound of RJ's snuffling. He still felt tired, but actually did feel better for the nap. He peered down at the warm little bundle nestled contentedly into his chest.

_I did that,_ he thought, overcome again with that strange mix of awe and pride and terror, _I did that. He's mine._

RJ waggled a hand, and in his sleep, grabbed Dean's thumb.

Dean lay watching his son until the boy began to stir and babble, waking up himself. When he did, he pulled the unhappy face that immediately made it clear that his last feed was being efficiently processed.

"Hey there, RJ," Dean crooned, "You awake? Oh, what's the matter, little guy? You need changing? How about we get you cleaned up, then think about a feed, huh?"

He chatted and smiled at the baby as he went through the change routine in a more relaxed fashion. RJ's babbling changed from the unhappy grizzling of discomfort to the demanding noises of hunger, so he headed for the kitchen to prepare a bottle, with Lemmy following closely and watchfully. Once that was done, he headed for the living room, where he heard quiet voices.

"Hey, Sammy, do me a favour," he began, "Start feeding RJ, I gotta go take a – huh?"

"Yeah, sure, hand him over," sighed Sam, putting aside what he was doing.

"What the fuck are you doing?" demanded Dean.

"Well, if I'm going to hold RJ, I gotta have both hands free," Sam answered, "Oh, God, you want me to feed him? I need a spit-up cloth. And not one of my shirts, you jerk..."

"No, no, no," snapped Dean, "What are you doing there?"

"What, this?" Sam held up the piece of knitting he was working on. "I'm knitting."

"Well, thanks, genius," grumped Dean, "I can see that you're knitting. What I want to know is, why are you knitting?"

"I'm knitting something for RJ," Sam told him.

"He's doing very well," Ronnie added encouragingly, "Okay, now, you need to make another increase, so..."

"What are you doing teaching Francis how to knit?" demanded Dean.

"He knows how to knit already," she shrugged. "I'm just showing him how to follow a more complex pattern." She cocked her head like Castiel listening to what Dean called Radio Angel. "Sounds like somebody else is waking up," she muttered, just as Lita let out a gruffing bark of notification from upstairs, "Just do two more rows like that."

"We will speak of this later," growled Dean, handing over RJ and the bottle to Sam, then flinging the cloth at him and stalking out of the room.

"Okay," Sam said to himself, taking a deep breath, "Hold the kid like this... hold the bottle like this... and let him do all the work, Oh, God, RJ, don't wiggle!"

RJ made his demanding noise and waved his arms, grabbing for his bottle. He drank noisily, while Sam implored him not to make any sudden movements.

"Wow, you must be hungry," Sam marvelled. "You are like your dad. You'd be amazed at how quickly he can empty a bottle."

RJ paused, burped, and smiled, waving his arms again.

"Don't do that!" yelped Sam, breathing a sigh of relief as RJ latched back onto his bottle. "Seriously, are you supposed to eat that fast?"

RJ paused and burped again. Sam sighed, winced, and dabbed at the baby's face and his own arm.

"Yeah, you're a messy eater, too," he said. RJ giggled, and reached out to pat at Sam's face. Sam found himself smiling back. "You want more dirt on your dad, huh?" he asked. RJ let out a gurgle of laughter, then went back to his bottle. "Dunno where to start. He talks with his mouth full. That's really gross. And he likes to eat with his hands. Which I guess is okay if you're a baby, but really, he's forty years old now, and should know better."

RJ paused to babble some more.

"Yeah, I think so too," agreed Sam, helping the boy latch back onto his drink, "And he wipes his mouth on his sleeve. And he wiped _your _mouth on _my _sleeve, which is, no offence, little guy, a bit gross. I know you're a baby, and all, and I don't hold you responsible for your dad's disgusting habits, but, well, you're a bit of a shock to the system, I gotta tell you..."

RJ gurgled understandingly, and patted Sam's face again. Sam grinned until his dimples showed.

"Yeah, yeah, he's old enough to know how to keep his dick in his pants, but he just couldn't help himself. When you're older, we'll have to explain to you about who your Mom is, I guess. Still," he shifted RJ slightly, "As accidents go, you are probably the cutest one I've ever seen."

RJ made an interrogative noise.

"Nope, 'fraid not," Sam informed him with a smile, "You're stuck with us. Now we gotcha, we aint gonna let you go. You're a Winchester, dude. For good. Deal with it."

RJ smiled, then turned his attention back to draining his bottle.

"You're lucky you're so adorable," Sam warned him, "It's true, what Bobby says – oh, he's gonna use the word 'idjit' repeatedly when he meets you, but it's okay, it'll be directed at your dad – anyway, he says that Mother Nature made puppies and babies irresistibly adorable, otherwise nobody in their right minds would ever want one."

RJ drained the dregs, then burped again. His face took on a quizzical look...

"Er, does that face mean you got wind?" asked Sam anxiously. "Or did you just shit yourself? Please let it be wind..." RJ replied by burping, and spitting up on Sam's sleeve. "Uh, okay," he said, "I've seen Dean do this, and I saw this video of how to do this... please don't wiggle..."

Sam carefully manoeuvred RJ onto his shoulder, and began to rub him tentatively on the back.

"Uh, there there?" he ventured.

RJ babbled a little, then produced a belch of surprising volume.

"Yes, we have burp-off!" declared Sam in triumph, rubbing more confidently as RJ did it again. "Yeah, that's another one of your dad's disgusting habits, and let's not talk about him farting..."

Dean stood in the doorway, watching Sam and RJ work each other out. Finally, Sam noticed him, and turned to him with a smile.

"I fed him," he announced with a note of pride, "And I burped him too."

"Good job, Sammy," Dean answered, "We'll have you flying bathtime and change time solo in no time!"

"Er, let's just, uh, not rush things," Sam suggested hurriedly, handing RJ over to his father.

"Hey, Ronnie," called Dean, hearing footsteps coming down the stairs behind them, "What time is dinner?" Any chance of those potato things?"

"Dean!" yapped Sam in disapproval, "We're guests here, and you only ate lunch a couple of hours ago?"

"You sure he's not part werewolf?" asked Ronnie. "He eats like one." She put her head to the side, as if considering some weighty matter. "We could have potato pancakes," she told them, "But, there's no such thing as a free lunch. Or dinner. There's always a price to pay."

"They sound pretty good," Dean commented.

"Okay then," Ronnie said grimly, standing up and squaring her shoulders like a commanding officer about to lead troops on a deadly mission, "Do you have laundry that needs doing?"

"Well, yeah," answered Sam in a puzzled voice, "Quite a bit, actually."

"Go and get it, take it to the laundry, and put it in the machine to wash," she instructed, "Then join us. Dean, you grab that rug, and choose a toy." She picked up a squeaky green crocodile, and inspected it like it was a sidearm.

"Uh, what are we gonna do?" asked Sam tentatively.

"Gentlemen," she told them seriously, "We are going to hang washing, and have some playtime – _outside_."

**...****oooooOOOOOooooo****... ...****oooooOOOOOooooo****... ...****oooooOOOOOooooo****... ...****oooooOOOOOooooo****... ...****oooooOOOOOooooo****... **

Sam couldn't help but be fascinated by the wordless yet strangely intimate little ritual that played out when Andrew came home from work. Ronnie, Connor and Lita greeted him as a group; the adults whuffed affectionately to each other, Andrew bending to sniff deeply at Ronnie's neck, while Connor reached up to nose at his father, and make his own babbling whuffing noise while Andrew picked him up and rumbled back. (Later in his life, Sam would compile what came to be regarded as_ the_ reference book on Old North werewolves, documenting their anatomy, physiology, and behaviours. The seed of the idea was probably planted as he watched the pack greet their returning member.)

"I wonder if they'll bend over and sniff each other's asses," wondered Dean aloud, waggling Oinker Stoinker for RJ.

"We don't do it for an audience," Ronnie told him primly.

"Unless the audience was paying, maybe," added Andrew brightly, letting out a yelp as she whacked him in the arm. "Okay, maybe not. So, you guys have an extra Winchester!"

"This is RJ," said Dean proudly, lifting his son up to show him off. RJ babbled in greeting.

"Welcome to the world, RJ," smiled Andrew.

He managed just one step forward before Lemmy was on his feet, planting himself between Dean and the male werewolf, teeth bared and growling, eyes crackling red, as Lars did the same beside him.

"Oh, dear," he sighed, as Ronnie began to laugh at Dean's astonished face.

"Hey, guys, it's just Andrew, you know who he is," he began, but Sam cut him off.

"I think the problem might be,that they know what he is," his brother suggested. "They've never had a, uh, pup to protect before."

"They don't mind me," Ronnie grinned at Andrew's drooping features, "Because I'm kind of connected – their litter-sister chose me – and as a team, there's a reasonable chance that they could take down a female werewolf if they had to. But an alpha male – all bets are off until they decide he's not any threat to the youngest member of their pack."

"Yeah, yeah," Andrew gruffed at the dogs, "We do this your way." He handed Connor back to Ronnie, shucked out of his clothes and _changed_...

He looked even bigger indoors, but he immediately fell to his belly, ears flat, and whining, crawling across the floor in a picture of abject abasement. As he approached Lemmy, he rolled over, exposing his throat, and licked submissively at the dog's muzzle.

RJ had watched the whole performance, and babbled in excitement, waving his hands enthusiastically.

"I think he wants to meet Andrew, guys," grinned Dean.

Lemmy and Lars seemed to come to some sort of mutual decision, indicated by the waving of tails and a couple of playful barks and sniffs at Andrew. The male werewolf moved close enough to sniff at RJ.

The baby shrieked in delight, grabbed a large furry ear, and yanked.

Andrew screamed like a little bitch.

Connor squealed with laughter.

"Oh, hilarious," complained Andrew, returning to human form and reaching for his clothes, "Take note, Dean – watching Daddy get hurt is always extremely funny."

"You did squeal like a girl, dude," Dean pointed out. RJ squalled demandingly. "Uh, I think he wants you to do it again," he interpreted.

"Probably not a good idea," Andrew replied, "You guys went outside today, didn't you? I know that, because BMI – has she told you about BMI? – well, BMI is headed in this direction, and she's got catering on her mind. Look on the bright side, though, I think I smelled kartoffelpuffers..."

* * *

*cough choke* Will someone send Mademoiselle Dean over to clear away some of this interminable fluff? I can't breathe here. I need them to find a Hunt before I suffocate...

Reviews are the Winchester/Angel/Demon Of Your Choice Providing You With Assistance In The Domestic Problems Of Life! (They may even inspire more helpful interludes; if you tell Nathaniel what your problem is, he might be able to offer succour...)


	14. Chapter Fourteen

_**ANOTHER HELPFUL INTERLUDE!**_

**Castiel: **I do not understand why I am wearing this ensemble.

**Lampito: **It's so that you can help Isis the Sphinx with her housework. It might be a good idea to make her a nice mug of cocoa, too.

**Castiel: **I do not consider this to be practical clothing for domestic cleaning; overalls would be more hard-wearing, and easier to launder if soiled. The apron alone will require long soaking to clean if it sustains even a modicum of contamination with household grime, and the stockings will suffer from runs too easily. Plus, this small feather duster will not actually remove any dust, it will merely redistribute it...

**Dean: **At least you still get to wear your trench coat. I got a draft!

* * *

Sam learned to knit in our last Jimiverse story, 'Teacher's Pet', so he's just putting what he learned into practice. I can just see him turning out baby clothes, much to Dean's horror. Especially if he does it in public.

**And to the SICK, SICK INDIVIDUAL who WENT LOOKING for a picture of Dean in a French Maid's outfit and SENT ME THE LINK with no warning – you are going to Hell for that.**

* * *

**Chapter Fourteen**

_"Alle Vögel sind schon da, alle Vögel, alle!"_

Mrs Ingelborg had a surprisingly rich and pleasant contralto voice.

_"Welch ein Singen, Musiziern, Pfeifen, Zwitschern, Tireliern!"_

Then again, mused Sam, it was entirely possible that she had eaten a tenor or two at some point.

_"Frühling will nun einmarschiern, kommt mit Sang und Schalle."_

_...And she could have swallowed them without chewing much, _he thought_, And that's why they're still down there, trying to communicate with the outside world the only way they can..._

Ronnie nudged him. "Told you, you should've taken the me-time nap," she rumbled in amusement.

"Sorry," he yawned, "I'll sleep tonight. I hope."

"I can growl to get rid of her," she offered, _sotto voce_.

"Nah," he grinned, "Watching Dean get lectured on how to raise a child has been too entertaining. And RJ seems to be enjoying the show."

Mrs Ingelborg balanced one baby expertly on each knee, Andrew and Dean on either side of her, and the boys gurgled and clapped in appreciation at the impromptu concert. When she finished, RJ patted at her ample bosom and turned big green eyes on her, requesting another verse, with which she cheerfully obliged. He waved his arms and bounced himself up and down, giving every appearance of being an appreciative audience.

"Oh, he is completely delightful Mr Winchester!" she gushed, handing RJ back to Dean. "And so, you are travelling with your brother, without his mother?" she enquired, almost managing not to sound like a nosy old biddy.

Dean let a beautiful, vaguely sad smile slide onto his face. "His mother... no longer walks this world," he told her in a stoic yet vulnerable tone. "But we have each other, and we have Sam, and we have Grandpa Bobby, and I'm sure that she knows it, and she's happy."

"Oh, how brave you boys are," she crooned, her expression barely indicating that she would get enormous mileage out of the story of the handsome, charming widower and his beautiful son at the next meeting of her embroidery group. "And you look after your Papa, Robert, yes?"

RJ babbled, and reached up to pat Dean's face. Then he grabbed his father's hand, and began to fuss and chew on Dean's knuckles.

"Uh, I think somebody might be hungry," Dean smiled. "I guess we should deal with that, before I start losing fingers."

"Ach! He should be on a schedule," Mrs Ingelborg went back into instruction mode, "All of mine were on a feeding schedule from the day they were born, and I never had a moment's trouble with them!" She peered at RJ, then at Connor. "How is his weight, Veronica?" asked Mrs Ingelborg earnestly. "He is looking a little thin. He is feeding well? How is your milk supply?"

"He's doing fine, Mrs Ingelborg," Ronnie said through a teeth-clenching smile, "And so am I."

"Thank you so much for dropping in, Mrs Ingelborg," Andrew cut in smoothly in a way that suggested this particular scene had played out before, "It's so very kind of you to offer practical help the way you do – I can't tell you how much we appreciate your generosity," he added, standing up and preparing to escort her to the door.

"Because if he did say what you actually think, her ears would probably singe off," muttered Sam to Ronnie, and she stifled a laugh, turning it into a throat-clearing cough.

"You are not unwell, Veronica?" queried Mrs Ingelborg as Andrew handed Connor to her. "You look a little unwell. Are you sleeping? All of mine were on a sleep schedule, and they slept right through the night from a very early age. He should be sleeping in his own room, you know, all of mine slept in the nursery from the day I brought them home..."

"We manage, Mrs Ingelborg," Ronnie managed without saying 'fuck you' at all.

"Is she eating properly, Andrew?" the neighbour demanded. "It's important that she eat well, to feed her child well. You need meat."

"Don't tempt me," muttered Ronnie.

"I'm sure we'll all eat well tonight, Mrs Ingelborg," enthused Dean, taking another sniff at the smell of the casserole and potato pancakes hanging in the air, "It smells absolutely delicious."

"You should put some in the blender for the children," Mrs Ingelborg instructed as Andrew herded her politely yet inexorably to the door. "All of mine were eating solids by the time they were six months old..."

A low, rumbling growl travelling through the floor seemed to prompt Mrs Ingelborg on her way, and they heard Andrew see her off at the door.

"Ja... ja... ja... danke schön, Frau Ingelborg. Ja... ja... ja... machs gut! Bis später!"

"Wow," said Sam finally, "She's kind of... intense."

"I warned you there would be a catch," Ronnie reminded them in grim triumph.

"Yeah," agreed Dean, preparing RJ's bottle, "It was kinda creepy. The boys had a great time outside, though..."

"You didn't have to let him taste dirt," Sam reproached his brother.

"You ate plenty of dirt, if I was too slow to stop you," Dean sounded unconcerned. "And the occasional worm. I see what you mean about the jack-in-the-box thing, though. Does she have some sort of motion sensor pointed at your yard?"

"I think it's just a very well developed nosy neighbour instinct," replied Ronnie gloomily, "The second I open the back door, there she is, on her step-ladder, grinning and waving like it's not just her right to keep tabs on everybody else's business, but it's her job. Once she saw that we had visitors, and there were two babies in the household, well, you might as well as try to keep a starving wendigo away from a crippled miner."

"If Nanny Ogg was from Uberwald," opined Sam, "She would be Mrs Ingelborg."

"If Mrs Ingleborg was Nanny Ogg," sighed Ronnie, "I could gank her for a witch."

"But she's not," said Andrew firmly as he returned. "The dogs like her. Lita has done from the start, and her brothers like her, too. And surely, if she was a witch trying to worm her way into our trust, she'd try harder to be likeable, and she wouldn't be so annoying."

"He's got a point," Dean agreed. "Jimi's pups all got the 'nose for evil shit' thing."

"Stop being so reasonable," Ronnie grumbled.

"It's my superpower," Andrew grinned, which earned him a snarl. "Why don't you two go feed the pups before they start to scream, then we can bathe 'em, and put 'em to bed."

"Then we can feed me, before I start to scream," added Dean brightly, as RJ reached for his bottle.

"Sounds like a good idea," Ronnie nodded, jiggling Connor, who pawed at her chest in a none-too-subtle hint. "Hey, here's another idea, let's try staying as human as possible this time. Whaddyareckon?"

With a demanding wail, Connor grabbed at her chest again, and then...

And then, she was holding a fluffy grey pup.

"I guess not," she sighed. "I wonder what Mrs Ingelborg would say about this."

"All off mine vere on a shape-shift schedule," pronounced Andrew in an astonishingly good impersonation of their neighbour, "Und ve never had any problems vith them."

"Help me," she sighed, heading for the living room.

**...****oooooOOOOOooooo****... ...****oooooOOOOOooooo****... ...****oooooOOOOOooooo****... ...****oooooOOOOOooooo****... ...****oooooOOOOOooooo****... **

"What the hell are they doing up there?" asked Ronnie as she and Sam prepared to dish up the dinner that Mrs Ingelborg had cooked for them.

"It sounds like the Oinker Stoinker song," answered Sam, cocking his head to listen.

"Do I even want to know?" sighed Ronnie.

"It's just a song that Dean made up, oh, God, it must've been when we first had Jimi Junior, and he didn't like the bath," Sam grinned at the memory. "It works for Lars and Lemmy, and it also works for RJ. You give the, uh, reluctant bathee Oinker Stoinker the blue squeaky pig to play with, and sing the song, and it, er, seems to help things go a bit more smoothly."

The strains of two adult voices singing floated down to them.

"_Oinker Stoinker, you're the one,  
__You make bathtime lots of fun,  
Oinker Stoinker I'm awfully fond of you..._"

"Insanity really is hereditary," she muttered, "People get it from their kids."

Dinner was blissfully free of childogenic interruptions, although one incident of potentially childish interruption was barely averted.

"Hey! Don't take the last one!"

"Why not? I'm still hungry."

"Well, so am I."

"You can fill up on pie."

"I want it!"

"Jesus, Dean, you sound about four years old."

"Well, we're guests in his house."

"You're guests of my pack. Subtle difference, dude."

"In a civilised family, guests get the last potato pancake."

"In a civilised pack, the alpha male eats first, then everybody else gets his leftovers."

"Don't you pull that Big Bad Wolf crap with me, you sissy, I saw you faint the first time you saw your kid! I didn't faint."

"You did go 'Meeeeep', though. More than once."

"Shut up, Sam. HEY!"

"_Grrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrr"_

"What's going on in here? Is there a reason you two are about to stab each other with your forks? Andrew, reel your bloody teeth in this minute, you're not impressing anybody."

"They're arguing over who gets the last potato pancake."

"Oh, for fuck's sake. One cuts it in half, the other one chooses first."

"Sam, go to the car, get me the tape measure."

"What? No, you jerk! You wanna be so stupid, you go get it!"

"I can't! If I turn my back, he'll take it!"

"Yes, yes I will."

"There, see? I can't go, so... SAM! Oh, you little _bitch_!"

"Mmmmm, they are goo', aren' 'ey?"

The conundrum of the last remaining potato pancake having been resolved by Sam simply eating the problem, Andrew and Dean were eventually placated with pie, then they headed back to the living room.

"I can't believe it," Sam mused as Dean went to check on RJ, "I'm sitting here, without a screaming kid screaming, or a stressed-out big brother stressing out. It's almost... peaceful."

"Don't get too settled," grinned Ronnie, picking up her own knitting, "It never lasts for long. Now, are you ready to do the edging?"

They knitted for a while longer, until Sam felt his eyes start to droop.

"Go on," Ronnie prompted, "Bedtime for all the little Winchesters. Make sure your brother takes his boots off before he turns in. Oh, before you go, have you picked out the ones you want...?" she turned the pattern book around. "I'm doing those ones."

He looked at the options. "Do you think that would be too ambitious?" he asked.

"Oh, just right!" she giggled. "We can work on them tomorrow. Go on, before you fall asleep."

He half expected to find Dean asleep already, but his big brother was just lying on the bed, peering down into the crib, watching RJ sleep. Lemmy had his nose up against the mesh, and was doing the same thing.

"You know, he won't disappear if you take your eyes off him," he joked.

"I know," sighed Dean with a smile. "He's just..."

Sam smiled at his besotted brother. "Yeah, he is," he agreed. "He didn't grizzle or cry nearly as much today. Maybe he's more relaxed because you're more relaxed, bro."

"Hmmmmmmm," went Dean non-committally.

"The cold stuff for chewing on really seems to have helped him to settled down. I read that frozen bananas, carrots and celery sticks are recommended by a lot of parents."

"Hmmmmmmm," went Dean again.

"Of course, you probably don't want him to turn into a vegiesaurus, so maybe we could freeze some chunks of raw meat for him instead."

"Hmmmmmmm."

"Or we could paint him blue on one side, and red on the other, and use him as a siren next time we want to impersonate police."

"Hmmmmmmm."

"Or you could wear a caftan and high heels, and declare your undying love for Donatella Versace on YouTube."

"Hmmmmmmm."

"I want to live as a woman."

"Hmmmmmmm."

"I intend to pimp your ass out to raise the money so I can get the surgery."

"Hmmmmmmm."

"Your car is on fire."

"Hmmmmmmm?"

Sam stifled his laughter. "This is S. Winchester calling D. Winchester on Planet Dad," he intoned, "Do you read, Planet Dad, over?"

"Did you say something?" Dean finally looked up.

"I said, I'm calling first on the shower," said Sam.

"Knock yourself out," Dean waved at him, then went back to watching RJ.

When Sam returned, Dean had in fact fallen asleep, his arm dangling down into RJ's crib. Shaking his head in amusement, Sam pulled his brother's boots off, then pulled the covers over him.

After he took a picture of course; this was, after all, not just his brother, but his brother's kid. And, one thing that he'd learned early in his life was that, when you are dealing with Winchesters, whether it was sixteen hours or sixteen years later, there was no such thing as too much blackmail material.

* * *

IBM can't be a fugly: if she was, Lita would already have picked her, and Ronnie would already have ganked her. And made Andrew help dispose of the body. ("You're going to sit there until you eat her! Just kidding, let's go and dig a big hole."). She is, in fact, just a nosy old biddy.

Reviews are the Delicious Unexpected Potato Pancakes at the Dinner Table Of Life!


	15. Chapter Fifteen

Hopefully Nathaniel's fluffy schmoop (or schmoopy fluff) is acting as an antidote to some of the angst that I understand accompanied the final ep of Season 8. (Let's face it, if a show could have a middle name, Angst would be Supernatural's.) I haven't watched a full episode past Season 5 (although it's impossible not to pick up on the gist of what's going on in canon), so the Jimiverse becomes ever more AU with every passing season. Bobby is alive and well and calling everybody idjits, Singer Salvage was rebuilt after Godstiel rehabilitated via a truly spectacular bout of diabolocelestial gastrointestinal distress, the angels are definitely not falling en masse (Denariel, senior Archivist and Librarand Crowley will forever be the scheming, put-upon, lonely, over-worked and underappreciated King of Hell who would do anything for Bobby's friendship (even after Bobby dies aged in his 90s). Even Lucifer and Michael (out of the Cage, and currently still on their getting-to-know-humanity sabbaticals in canine vessels – Lucifer is actually becoming jollier as he gets fatter) are back on almost-civil speaking terms. I don't do anything except happy endings. Well, for everybody except Crowley, anyway.

Was anybody else disappointed that Romania didn't win Eurovision 2013? I love me a countertenor. Even if he looks like a cross between Elvira Mistress of the Dark and Ming the Merciless.

* * *

**Chapter Fifteen**

Sam woke up feeling better than he had since RJ had arrived – it was amazing what a couple of blocks of a few hours of sleep at a time strung together could do. He yawned, stretched, and sat up.

Lars and Lemmy had dragged their blanket closer to the crib, and were pressed up against it. Dean was out like a light; Sam was glad, because he'd handled the feeding, the changing and the middle-of-the-night soothing with a minimum of disruption, saying "You need your beauty sleep so much more than me, Francis, so just stay in bed, bitch."

It was just damned typical of his brother, Sam mused. Dad had told Dean to look after Sam, and he'd made it his life's mission: whether it was demons, pissed off archangels, or sleep deprivation, Dean would protect Sam from it. He felt a brief stab of irrational guilt, wondering how many times Dean, just a child himself, had woken up in the night when their Dad was passed out with Jack or Jim or Jose and in no state to stand up unassisted, let alone deal with a hungry or wet toddler...

Shaking his head, he slid out of bed, and dressed as quietly as he could.

He was about to slink out of the room, carrying his shoes, when he heard a snuffling whimper from the crib.

"No, no, no," he hurried over, knelt down, and shushed at RJ. "Hey, little guy," he whispered, "Why don't you let Daddy sleep, huh? He was up last night with you, and he's real tired."

RJ looked up at him and grizzled, his face crinkling. Sam tried shushing again, and waggling Oinker Stoinker without any honking, but RJ let out another droning whimper.

"Fuck," muttered Sam, reaching down to pick the baby up. RJ snuggled against him, and quieted a little. "Please don't wiggle, please don't wiggle," pleaded Sam, "And please don't make any noise, okay, we don't want to... oh." A feeling of warm dampness pressed against his arm. "Oh, RJ," he sighed, trying to contain his panic, "You leaked. Why do you have to leak so much?"

By way of answer, RJ let out a droning complaint. Sam looked around desperately; his eye fell on the diaper bag. He let out a sigh, then squared his shoulders.

"Okay," he told RJ, still whispering, "We're gonna do this, and let Daddy sleep. Here's the plan: I'll get you dry and comfy, and you don't hose me down. Because if you do, I'll yell, and that will wake up Daddy, and he's tired, and it will be all your fault, got it?"

RJ moaned unhappily again, but subsided.

Pushing aside a small niggling concern about using emotional blackmail to get a child to behave, even a young baby, Sam approached the diaper bag. He gulped, spread out a towel on his bed, put RJ down, then opened it as if it was a bag full of poisonous snakes...

It took Sam longer than it would've taken Dean, and he almost gave up on putting RJ into clean pants ("Oh, God, what is it with you and wiggling?") and a shirt that read 'Silly Daddy – Boobs Are For Babies' ("Seriously, what are you, part eel or something?"), and had to stifle a yelp when RJ kicked him in the chin, but eventually, he had his nephew changed and dressed. RJ seemed to appreciate the effort: he smiled and gurgled, and yanked eagerly on Sam's hair.

"Nggggggg!" Sam's eyes crossed with the effort of not shrieking out loud. "Okay, there you go, now, you lie here and nap and shut up." He checked his watch. "I'll go start making up a bottle, if you be quiet until Daddy wakes up to feed you. Do we have a deal?"

RJ grabbed at Sam's right hand, and they shook on it.

"Okay," Sam put RJ back down next to Dean. "I guess we'll have to change your bed. Again. Later. You're high maintenance, you know that?"

RJ giggled, and blew a raspberry. Sam smiled, and sneaked from the room, Lars trailing him silently.

As soon as the door shut, Dean opened one eye, and grinned conspiratorially at his son.

"Didn't I tell you we'd get him trained? I give you ten points for that kick in the chin. Tell you what, I'll award you fifty points if you can pee in his mouth..."

**...****oooooOOOOOooooo****... ...****oooooOOOOOooooo****... ...****oooooOOOOOooooo****... ...****oooooOOOOOooooo****... ...****oooooOOOOOooooo****... **

They spent a few more days at Casa Jaeger, during which Dean conducted more babyrobics classes, Sam worked on his knitting and Ronnie baked some ginger cookies that she said were her grandmother's recipe; not only did they work well as teething biscuits, they were also proven to fend off travel sickness in children, dogs, horses and ferrets.

"Ferrets?"

"My grandmother used to hunt with them, when she was young."

"Hunt, as in rabbits?"

"Yeah. She also reckoned that they were damned useful against vampires; she trained them to run up the bloodsuckers' legs and sink their teeth in until they drew blood, then she'd yell 'See how you like it you fuckers!' as she decapitated them."

"Is this the same grandmother who was taken down by vampires, then all the ones that bit her died of bile poisoning?"

"Yep – the one who once drove a wendigo to set itself on fire to get away from her tirade of abuse."

"Your family tree is all class."

"I think of it more as my family cactus, since it has so many pricks."

RJ was settling into his new life, Dean was settling into parenthood, and Sam was coming to terms with the fact that sometimes a small spot of baby spit-up didn't mean that you had to change your shirt immediately. The good thing about plaid, he decided, was that it didn't show spots so readily, and stains didn't show so much; he congratulated himself on having such a sensible wardrobe. He even did a couple more diaper changes (to Dean's disappointment, RJ didn't score a 50-point hit). It was peace, of a sort.

Of course, with Winchester luck now multiplied by three, it couldn't last.

The Winchesters started to discuss resuming their progress towards Singer Salvage when they experienced what Sam would later describe to Bobby as the Day Of Dreadful Dental Doom.

Connor was cutting his first tooth, and it became apparent that RJ wasn't far behind. They wanted all the world to know about this momentous occasion, and began to scream about it at a volume appropriate to inform, if not the whole world, then at least a couple of sprawling suburbs around the immediate area.

"What the fuck is this?" complained Dean to an uncaring universe as had so many despairingly exhausted parents before him, when RJ threw aside the frozen banana he'd been gumming at and screeched, stubbornly refusing to be comforted. "Duelling teeth? Aren't you a bit young to be getting into some sort of pissing contest over whose hurts worse?"

"I've tuned chainsaws that ran more quietly than this," grumbled Ronnie, coming back into the living room with an equally noisy Connor, as Dean was desperately trying to soothe RJ with Oinker Stoinker and bouncing him on his knee. Even Lemmy was trying to help, nosing playfully at RJ and whuffing gently. She threw a tube of teething gel at him. "Here. Rub some on his lower gum. And maybe put some in your ears."

"Why do kids need two sets of teeth anyway?" Dean wondered, trying to screw the lid of the tube without letting go of RJ.

"Well," began Sam, pausing in his knitting, "A child's jaw and skull is too small to accommodate adult teeth, and they need them to start eating and learning to speak before they're big enough, so..."

"Shut up with your rational explanations," snapped Ronnie crankily, "Nobody asked you."

"Yeah," echoed Dean, "Nobody asked you."

Sam's expression was pure WTF?, but he was quickly learning not to take an exasperated parent to task in the face of child-induced exasperation. He immediately arranged his face into an expression that he had observed Andrew wearing on several occasions. It was an expression that, on the face of one of a child's parents – the one that was not at that moment holding an inconsolable baby – clearly said 'Yes, Dear'. It worked; Dean and Ronnie stopped grumping at him as he went back to his knitting, wondering if he should wake Lars up and get the dog to use his Blood of the Pit talent to turn them both invisible.

"No wonder Andrew heads off to work so happily," noted Dean, finally getting the tube open and trying to apply it to his squirming son. "God, Sam's right, you are part eel. Ow! Ow! And part vampire! Hey, don't bite Daddy! How the hell did he bite me? He doesn't even have a damned tooth all the way out yet! What the hell does a kid need gums of steel for?"

"Don't complain to me about getting bitten," humphed Ronnie, "This little bastard's puppy teeth have started coming through when he shifts – according to Bruder Ansgar's writing, he won't get full control of his wolf teeth until he starts to get control of the shift. Fuck knows what I'm supposed to tell the Child Health Care nurse at his next visit if he does that. All I know is, breastfeeding and teething should not overlap. It's a recipe for chomped nipples. And not in an 'Ooooh-I'm-such-a-fan-of-_Fifty-Shades-Of-Grey_!' way. And I've got six of the damned things for him to maul, since he insists on shifting to feed..."

"What do babies even need teeth for, anyway?" Dean wondered. "I mean, what do they eat? Milk or formula, mashed up stuff, dirt, carpet fluff, you don't need to chew that shit."

"They shouldn't get teeth until they start to talk," declared Ronnie. "Then, they could say where it hurts, and you could explain what's happening. And explain that screaming doesn't make it better. And tell them to shut the hell up."

"Yeah," agreed Dean, "Instead of screaming the place down, they could be like, hey, Daddy, my gums are really sore, could I have some children's paracetamol and another frozen banana, thanks Daddy, you're totally the best."

"You wait until you have to deal with this sort of performance for the first time in public," Ronnie told him grimly, jiggling Connor fruitlessly, "And you get all these people staring at you, and they make faces like cats' arses, and you can hear them thinking, 'Why can't you shut your kid up, you incompetent idiot, you're clearly a crappy parent who should be reported to CPS, I bet you beat the shit out of that poor little thing to make it scream like that', and your husband won't let you turn around and tear the heads off a couple of them to show them that it's not nice to be so judgemental..."

Sam stared fixedly at his knitting. Lemmy, Lars and Lita whined, and put their paws over their ears.

It was not a good day; the babies grizzled and cried, and barely napped. Dean looked despairing, Ronnie looked resigned, Sam looked stoic, Lars Lemmy and Lita looked long-suffering, and when Andrew came home he took in the scene before him and looked irritatingly serene and unworried.

"Comfort food," he told Sam firmly, as Dean and Ronnie tried to get the boys to feed, "Sometimes you just gotta say screw nutrition, the situation calls for comfort food."

"Uh, okay," nodded Sam, "I guess that would be the chocolate pudding for RJ, what does Connor like?"

"Not for the kids, doofus," smiled Andrew, reaching for a take-out menu, then heading back to the living room. "I vote for Sam to go get pizza, schnitzel, lots of onion rings, and pie for dinner, then we'll bathe 'em and put 'em to bed while you two lick out the dishes."

"I love you," groaned Ronnie.

"Ditch her and marry me," sighed Dean.

"What?" yipped Sam. "I don't know how to..." Andrew kicked him in the leg.

Connor and RJ screamed, possibly because any show of affection between one's parents is totally gross to a kid of any age and possibly because the idea of one's father pairing up with a male werewolf is just a bit weird even for a Hunter's kid, or possibly just because their teeth were hurting them, or possibly because they'd worked themselves into that state that small children do where they are screaming about something, and they actually may not remember exactly what they are screaming about, but it was clearly something pretty screamworthy to start with so they just keep screaming on general principles.

"This stuff isn't working," complained Dean, after another ineffectual application of teething gel. "You got anything stronger?"

"Hang on," Ronnie reached down the side of the sofa, and retrieved a bottle of the dark rum from her home country that she preferred. "Ah, here we go," she purred, then undid the lid with her teeth.

Sam couldn't keep silent. "Hang on," he yelped, "You can't be going to do the whole rub alcohol on their gums thing, come on, it's an old wives' tale! We know that alcohol is toxic to the developing brain..."

"I have to go to Alberta to get this stuff," Ronnie snapped, taking a long drink then handing the bottle to Dean, "I am not wasting it on a screaming sprog."

Dean took a drink. "Gah! This is disgusting!" he announced, then took another long swig.

"Guys," Sam put on his not-confrontational-but-politely-assertive face, "It's been a long day, you're both tired, you've got to feed them again yet, I don't think it's a good idea for you to be..."

"Samuel Francis Winchester, shut the fuck up," said Ronnie pleasantly.

"I'll drink to that," smiled Dean, raising the bottle to Sam, drinking, then passing it back to Ronnie. "Ohhh, that's nasty stuff. Is that the only bottle you got?"

Before Sam could open his mouth to protest, Andrew grabbed his elbow and steered him back to the kitchen. "Don't. Part of being a good Dad," he instructed, "Is knowing when to say 'Yes, Dear', and make a strategic withdrawal."

"Huh?" Sam blinked. "I'm not RJ's Dad, I'm his uncle, that doesn't make sense..."

"Look, you can use words like 'primary caregiver' and 'co-parent' if you like," Andrew told him, "But in the functionality of your little Winchester family unit here, Dean is the mother, and you are gonna end up being the father, whether you want to or not. That doesn't mean that Dean won't be a father to RJ, but it does mean that when he's doing mothering stuff – like spending a day exhausting himself because the kid won't settle – then sometimes, you're gonna have to step up and do fathering stuff. Like taking the kid away before Mommy-mode Dean wants to scream too."

"But... I don't know how to bathe a baby!" wailed Sam. "I'm not even very good at diapers yet!"

"So, you'll learn," Andrew grunted. "Don't tell Ronnie I said this, but it can be kinda fun. If you ever need to, you can just jump in with him, and be even more efficient. Come on," he grinned, taking in the look on Sam's face, "This from the guy who threw Lucifer back into the Cage, and jumped in with him? After that, just how scary can a six-month-old be?"

Sam considered the question. "I intend to exercise my right under the Fifth Amendment on that one," he answered carefully.

Andrew shook his head and chuckled as he began to make a list of the required comfort food items, and put some bills on the table. "Here's the address – it's not far. But just far enough."

"Aren't you coming with me?" asked Sam, just as they heard Ronnie call "Andrew! Teeth!"

"Nah," Andrew waved a hand airily, "I gotta go pop my teeth in and out for the Zecke. When he's worked himself into a state like this, sometimes it's all that'll get him to shut up. With a bit of luck, it'll work on RJ, too." He headed for the living room, then paused. "See if you can find some party trick that RJ likes," he suggested, "Something really silly that'll distract him, no matter what. Can you do anything amusing with your eyebrows? Can you make your sideburns dance?"

"Uh, no," Sam replied with genuine regret as he took the list and headed for the car.

Before it subsided somewhat – Andrew's wolf-teeth peek-a-boo must've been cutting in – Sam could clearly hear the unhappy wailing from outside. On the drive to pick up dinner, he wondered whether it would be acceptable to get some blood from the next low-level demon they encountered and keep it for just in case – if he could move stuff around without touching it, maybe that would be enough to surprise a distressed RJ into silence...

With a sigh, he shelved the idea, and spent the trip surreptitiously looking in the rear view mirror to see if he could make his sideburns waggle.

* * *

Nathaniel says they'll be on the road to Bobby's soon. But what will happen on the way? Reviews feed the bunny!


	16. Chapter Sixteen

_ANOTHER HELPFUL INTERLUDE!_

**Lampito:** Dean, hold still, it's time for you to get out of that naughty maid outfit...

**Dean:** About damned time, these stockings are itchy. And I didn't get a single tip tucked into my garters...

**Lampito:** ...And into this naughty male nurse outfit.

*TappitytappityclickclickENTER*

**Dean:** WHAT THE FUCK IS THIS?

**Lampito:** Here, take some frozen bananas and Tylenol to CapnB's room. Wisdom teeth. Evil fuckers. Just flutter around in a compassionate fashion, fluff pillows, arrange bedclothes, offer a soothing hand to a suffering brow, that sort of thing.

**Dean:** I don't look after anybody except Sam!

**Sam:** You are so not coming ANYWHERE near me in that outfit, dude.

**Lampito:** Run along. Make some cheeky jokes about where you'd like to put your thermometer to take her temperature, that's bound to cheer her up.

**Dean: **I hate you.

**Lampito:** Stop complaining, or it will be the fireman stripper outfit for you, my lad, complete with rowdy audience of Denizens and inappropriate comments about hose couplings.

**Dean:** MEEEEP!

**Sam: **Heh heh, isn't he adorable when he goes Meep?

**Lampito: **Be nice, or you'll get the stripper librarian routine.

**Sam:** What the fuck? What the hell is a stripper librarian routine?

**Lampito:** I have no idea, but I'll bet Leahelisabeth could tell you, and I'm also guessing that it involves date stamps with chocolate sauce stamp pads. Knowing her, she'll probably want to stuff you into the After Hours Returns box.

**Sam:** MEEEEP!

* * *

**Chapter Sixteen**

The evening after the Dreadful Day of Dental Doom, they had another catering visit from BMI, who serenaded the babies, then stood on the porch giving Andrew an earful in German before she left.

"What's he done to incur the wrath of BMI?" wondered Sam.

"No idea," Ronnie shrugged, "But it's usually about me not eating enough. Me! Is she blind as well as annoying?"

"She's probably telling him how when she had her kids, her husband had her on an eating schedule, or something," theorised Sam.

"Not far off," grumbled Andrew, "Seriously, that woman is nosier than an anteater. So, which one of you assholes went outside in broad daylight?"

"Dean did," Ronnie answered promptly, "He didn't just take his own kid outside, he kidnapped your son, and took him outside too, and the dogs helpfully dug up some dirt for them to taste, then he engaged the enemy in pleasant conversation..."

"It's good to make nice with the neighbours," Dean protested. "Be neighbourly."

"When her stepladder collapsed, he jumped over the fence to fix it for her," Ronnie related reproachfully.

"Connor found a worm," Sam added helpfully, "And RJ wanted to taste it."

"But it was worth it," grinned Dean, inhaling deeply, "And tonight I call first on the last potato pancake."

"Like hell, puny human. I am alpha in this den..."

"Shove it up your ass, Lassie."

"For fuck's sake," snapped Ronnie crossly, "Why don't you just whip your dicks out, and get a ruler, and you can settle this once and for all... naaaaaaagh!" she finished on a yelp as Dean and Andrew both reached for their flies. "Silver ammo would work on both of you," she muttered.

"Why don't we take the boys upstairs for bath time," Sam interrupted in a placatory tone, "And you can get dinner ready."

Dean shot his brother a concerned look. "It's okay, Sammy, I can do that..."

Sam put on a resolute expression. "Dean," he said firmly, "I have to learn to do this. It's good for me to practise here, with Andrew supervising, without you leaning over my shoulder worrying about whether I'm doing it right. Besides," he continued, "You've been looking after RJ all day. It's exhausting. I can see it tiring you out. You need to have some time for yourself, Dean, even if it's just a while I give RJ a bath." He let his puppy dog expression creep onto his face. "You gotta look after yourself too, bro, so you can keep on being such an awesome dad. Let me do this for you. Please."

Dean handed RJ over, and smiled. "Thanks, Sammy," he said. "Now, RJ, you be a good boy for Uncle Sammy." He missed the conspiratorial thumbs up that Andrew sent Sam's way.

"We'll manage," Sam said bravely, as RJ babbled at him and grabbed for his hair once more. "You go, I dunno, go out and hug your car. Look at porn or something. Or Ronnie can teach you to knit."

"Or not. What the hell have you been knitting anyway? If it's a slip cover for my Baby, I will end you."

"It's nearly finished," Sam replied, following Andrew upstairs, "For when we leave tomorrow."

"Ronnie," Dean growled, "If he's knit anything pink for my boy..."

"Absolutely not," she replied firmly, "Would I let him do that?"

"Yes," Dean said abruptly. "If it's anything pink..."

"It's not."

"... Or lacy..."

"It's not."

"...Or there are flowers..."

"No."

"... Or pom-poms..."

"Nope."

"I will hold you responsible."

"Don't worry," she reassured him, "I wouldn't let Sam make him anything that would make people think he's a little girl. At least, nothing that would make people even more likely to think he's a little girl. Those eyelashes, those lips, he'd have made a beautiful little girl."

"Shut up."

"He's definitely yours. Did you ever get mistaken for a little girl when you were a baby? I bet you did."

"..."

"Yeah, you did." She grinned knowingly. "With a close shave and some foundation, you'd pass for female, you know. A weightlifter, perhaps. Ursula, my long-lost cousin from East Germany, hammer throw champion."

"Smartass."

"If you put on a wig, and stood next to me, everybody would remark on how attractive you were. Those cheekbones, that pout..."

"Ronnie..."

"You ever questioned your gender identity, Dean?"

"Right now I'm questioning your sanity as well as my own, you hairy abomination."

"I plead Mummy-brain. Remember that one, it's a great excuse for a multitude of fuck-ups. Seriously. Next time you forget something, or screw something up, just make a sheepish face, and say, "Oh, God, I'm so sorry, it's Mummy-brain". Or Daddy-brain, as the case may be."

Dean sighed. "I'm not sure I'll have to act that hard," he confided. "It's happened a couple of times already. My mind's always on RJ, is he safe, is he okay. It's exhausting. I wouldn't give him back for anything, but even having Sam take him just for bath-time, it's just such a relief to have somebody I trust take him for a little while." He looked worried. "Does that make me a bad parent?"

"No, der-brain, it makes you human. Although BMI would probably have something to say on the matter. No doubt, all her children were on a worry-about-them schedule, and never gave her a moment's trouble."

"I can't Hunt like this," Dean said bluntly, "I can't worry about RJ, and look out for Sam, and do the job as well."

"No," she chuckled, "No, you can't."

"What's so funny?" he demanded.

"I hate to break this to you," chuckled Ronnie, "But Sam's all growed up now, and is quite capable of looking after himself. He's capable of watching your back, even. He was taught by the best, he says."

"He's my little brother," growled Dean, "And I've been looking out for him since I was four years old."

"Yeah," Ronnie rolled her eyes, "It's a pity I never met your father. I'd have thoroughly enjoyed slapping him smartly around the head and shoulders for what he dumped on you. And don't give me that 'Don't you dare diss my Dad' glare; you're angry because you know I'm right. Well, you followed orders, Daddy's little soldier. You did what he wanted. You raised his son for him. Mission accomplished, I'd say. You did a pretty good job too, I think. I know it's what Sam thinks. Now, don't you think you've earned the right to concentrate on – and enjoy – being a parent to your own son?"

Dean sat down heavily on a kitchen chair. I don't want to worry Sam. He's already having his own problems adjusting to RJ. It's a big upheaval." He smiled. "I can't believe how willing he is to help. He was totally freaked out, and he's still freaked out, but he'll take him for a bath so I can just... stop for a bit. Maybe I should go and check..."

"Leave it," Ronnie advised with a straight face, "He wants to show you that he can do this. He wants to show you that, no matter how difficult and confronting he finds it, he's willing to do it. Let him do it. Let him be a grown-up. Potato pancake?"

"Yeah, thanks." Dean plucked one from the dish, reflecting on how lucky he was to have a little brother who, although not comfortable around a baby, wanted to help, no matter how confronting the experience was.

**...****oooooOOOOOooooo****... ...****oooooOOOOOooooo****... ...****oooooOOOOOooooo****... ...****oooooOOOOOooooo****... ...****oooooOOOOOooooo****... **

"The blue squeaky pig, _Oinkus Stoinkus dogtoyus_, remarkable for the ability to fly, is also atypical of pigs in that it can act as a porcine submarine."

RJ watched Sam demonstrate the subaquatic capacity of Oinker Stoinker, and splashed his hands up and down in excitement.

"It can hold its breath for minutes at a time, and come up honking, or at least, gurgling in a honky kind of way."

RJ squawked demandingly for the pig, and Sam handed it over. Babbling happily, he tested out Oinker Stoinker's underwater properties, hardly noticing that he was being bathed, as Connor splashed and cheered him on. Lita and Lemmy watched from a safe distance, whining, clearly wondering whether they should rush in to save the human pups from The Evil Bath, or stay out of the way lest they too be dragged into its awful soapy clutches.

"I gotta say," commented Andrew, "In the last two nights, I've learned more about the blue squeaky pig than I've learned in my whole life. I never thought bath time would be so educational."

"Well, I never knew it would be kinda fun," grinned Sam, as RJ held Oinker Stoinker up and made a demanding noise. "Oh, hang on, I think I gotta do the engine now. Ahem. The blue squeaky pig is also capable of vertical take-off, with or without accompanying sound effects..."

RJ's emphatic squawk made it clear that sound effects were required.

"Piston prop, or jet turbine?" enquired Andrew. "Fixed or rotary wing?"

"You'd really need to ask Dean about the mechanical details," Sam admitted, as RJ made his demanding noise again. "Okay, okay, uh, the blue squeaky pig is equipped with a, um, 12-cylinder pig-o-matic engine that runs on, oh, let's say, bacon..."

"Isn't that cannibalism?" interrupted Andrew.

"No, it's jet propulsion," answered Sam, "And it gets about 50 miles to the rasher, so it's very economical..."

"Does it do the afterburner thing out its ass, then?" Andrew pressed. "So, the night before a big mission, the ground crew feeds the blue squeaky pig a really hot chilli, and then once it's in the air..."

"I will take questions at the end of the lecture," Sam said sternly, "So stop interrupting."

At that point, RJ started to improvise, blowing raspberries as he waved Oinker Stoinker around.

Andrew added in some automatic weapons fire noises until bath time was over, and they had the boys dried off and ready for bed.

"We'll just go kiss Daddy good night, then bed," instructed Sam, as RJ lolled sleepily against his shoulder. He arranged his expression carefully. "Do I look suitably frazzled?" he asked.

Andrew hmmmmed thoughtfully. "Turn your eyebrows up a bit more in the middle. Smile should be a bit more brave-yet-sheepishly-grateful-it's-over... yeah, that's good. Saint Samuel of the Stressful Soapsuds. Martyred with a wash-cloth. You'll move him to tears."

**...****oooooOOOOOooooo****... ...****oooooOOOOOooooo****... ...****oooooOOOOOooooo****... ...****oooooOOOOOooooo****... ...****oooooOOOOOooooo****... **

"So, you guys are headed off tomorrow?"

"Yeah. I think we're kind of into the whole 'I've-Got-A-Kid' thing now. RJ's gotta learn to travel, just like the dogs did."

"We'll do the trip over a few days. I think that's the mistake we made – we were trying to do it like nothing had changed, get from point A to point B as quickly as possible, like we were working a job – I think RJ was picking up on that. We'll try to be a bit more relaxed, let RJ get the hang of travelling."

"Have you actually told Bobby that you're headed for his place with his practically-grandson?"

"Uh, not exactly..."

"By which he means no, because he refuses to pick up his phone, and call Bobby."

"Well, you refuse to do your laptop dancing, and tell him on skite."

"It's 'Skype', Dean, and he's your son, so you should tell him."

"At least it should be a bit easier now – we'll load you up with frozen teething stuff, and with my Gammer's biscuits. You can just shove one into RJ's face if he starts to grizzle."

"Hey, do you think they'd work on Dean?"

"Bitch. Oh, look, there's only one left..."

"Which I will have, thank you very much."

"Hey! What did we say about guests getting the last potato pancake?"

"We said that it doesn't happen unless it's one of my leftovers."

"Guys..."

"That's just greedy!"

"Fellas..."

"That's rich, coming from the guy who started helping himself before we even started dinner. Don't deny it! You stink of potato, Winchester!"

"Dean, did you start on them before we even sat down? You jerk!"

"It was Ronnie's idea! Anyway, I should still get the last one, because last ti-RONNIE!"

"Mmmmm, BMI migh' be a noshey neighbour, bu' she hash her ushes."

"I don't get no respect. I'm over seven feet tall, I can flip a medium sized car, I can disembowel just about anything with my bare hands, and even in my own den, I don't get no respect. My canines are more than three inches long, and my kid just laughs at them. Your kid just laughs at them."

"You did faint the first time you saw your son, dude."

"Shut up, or I'll get my wife to beat you up. Right after she finishes the last potato pancake that she stole."

"You can finish it for me if you like – I'll just go and tell BMI that you're taking the food from my mouth."

"Enjoy, dear."

**...****oooooOOOOOooooo****... ...****oooooOOOOOooooo****... ...****oooooOOOOOooooo****... ...****oooooOOOOOooooo****... ...****oooooOOOOOooooo****... **

The next morning, the Winchesters packed the car and prepared for departure. A blast of autumnal cold weather presaged the approach of Winter, so Dean was keen to make sure that RJ was dressed warmly enough.

"Okay, little guy," he turned back from the bag of RJ's stuff, "We gotta get you into a _HUH_?"

"Do you like it?" Sam beamed proudly while Dean stared at the... _thing _on his son's head.

"Sam," he said levelly, "Sam, what is _that _supposed to be?"

"It's a hat!" replied Sam happily, "It's what I've been knitting! It's a beanie!"

It was indeed a beanie. It was blue. It was not lacy. It had no flowers. It had no pom-poms.

What it did have was a pair of large, black and tan, distinctly Rottweileresque ears.

RJ reached up, grabbed at his beanie ears, and hooted excitedly.

"Sam," Dean growled, "Why have you given my human son dog ears?"

"I found them in one of Ronnie's magazines," Sam explained, "And thought they'd look cute. And he does!"

"My son does not need any help to look cute," stated Dean firmly. He reached for the beanie to remove it, but RJ grabbed for the edge and hung on, babbling stridently in complaint.

"See? He likes it," Sam pointed out. "And he needs it. It's cold out there today. Speaking of which..."

Before Dean could react, Sam reached out and plonked a larger version of the dog-ears beanie on his big brother's head.

"There you go!" he enthused, "You match!"

Dean caught sight of himself in the small mirror, and let out a squawk of outrage. "I am not wearing a hat with ears!"

"Well, you can't have mine," sniffed Sam, putting on his own. It was green. It had antlers.

"That's it," growled Dean, "You hand in your man-card right now, Francis. Seriously, what sort of a guy wears a hat with ears on it?"

"Hey, are you guys ready to roll?" asked Andrew. He was standing in the doorway, holding Connor. They were both wearing beanies. With pointy grey ears. "Hey, nice job, Sam. Love the ears, guys!"

"You people all need professional help," muttered Dean, as RJ reached up to pat at his father's dog ears and smile widely. "You, I will excuse on the grounds of being too young to know any better," he conceded.

Ronnie was in the kitchen, packing snack boxes. Her beanie had pointy ears too. "You look more German Shepherd than wolf," humphed Dean.

"I always wanted to be sable," she sighed wistfully. "Awwwww, don't you two just look gaw-jus! I could eat you both right up!"

"I will not forget, and I will not forgive," Dean told her, "The way you have corrupted my brother, and turned him into some bizarre Martha Stewart groupie."

"Be nice, or I won't put pie in your snack box," she informed him primly.

The Impala loaded up with dogs, Winchesters and a werewolf-sized snacks box, they were ready for departure.

"Thanks, guys," Dean said simply, "Thanks for everything. Except for showing my brother how to knit ridiculous hats." RJ sat in his seat, grinning, having protested loudly every time Dean tried to remove the beanie.

"Just promise me you'll call Bobby before you show up at his place," stipulated Ronnie, "Or at least, have an ambulance with a cardiac specialist paramedic follow you there."

"We will," Sam promised. "Or at least, I'll make sure he does."

"Get in, bitch," ordered Dean, starting the engine.

The world's crankiest werewolf, her mate, her pup and her dog waved them off. The Impala pulled out of the drive, Lemmy and Lars woofed a cheerful goodbye, then with a wave and a honk, they were gone.

"Is it mean of me that I found the last week several days entertaining?" asked Ronnie.

"Not at all," smiled Andrew, jiggling Connor, who giggled and snuggled against his father. "But I think they'll do just fine. They'll work something out. Sam is going to be the kind of uncle every kid wishes they had. And Dean will make a fantastic dad. Once he lets himself figure out how much fun fatherhood can be."

"Fun, huh?" snorted Ronnie, "Fun? With the sleepless nights, the teething, the exhaustion, the cranky wife, the mess, the noise, the smells, the diapers, the puke, the pee, the poop, the leaks, the endless laundry, the beans-on-toast-for-dinner because I was too exhausted to make anything else, the fact that your life has been hijacked by this completely selfish little parasite – you think that's _fun_?"

"Yup," smiled Andrew, "All of it. You left out the best bit." He kissed one of Connor's pointy beanie ears, and his son giggled happily. "I got this for the trouble. Totally worth it."

"Totally?" she pressed.

"Totally and utterly," he confirmed, as Connor patted his father's face, "I'd do it all over again."

"Ah, well," Ronnie went on, "You know, it's funny you should say that..."

She gave him some news.

To his credit, Andrew managed to hand Connor to her before he fainted.

With a philosophical sigh, she put Connor on the porch in Lita's care, then went back to pick up her husband. At least this time, she mused, he was in his human form.

"I shouldn't be doing this," she muttered to his unresponsive form as she carried him inside, "I should just leave you there. Pregnant people aren't supposed to lift heavy objects."

* * *

I hope none of our Merkin Denizens have been blown away by tornadoes recently - I had no idea that homes in Tornado Alley were no longer routinely built with storm cellars. Didn't these people watch 'Twister'?

Reviews are the Adorably Cute Hats Modeled By The Winchester Of Your Choice On The Cold Days Of Life!*

*As well as their other clothes. They are not wearing nothing but the Adorably Cute Hat. Not when it's cold.


	17. Chapter Seventeen

**Chapter Seventeen**

"He seems to be getting the hang of it," remarked Sam, turning around to pull a face at RJ, who giggled, and waved the messy remains of his cookie. Like a doting nanny, Lemmy leaned in and carefully licked at the cookie mess smeared across the baby's face, while Lars cleaned his other hand. Whether it was the cookies, the canine company, the reduced stress levels of the adults or just acclimatization to his new life, RJ did indeed appear to be a happier passenger, amusing himself by looking out the window, chewing on his own feet, or babbling companionably at the dogs.

"Yeah," Dean beamed at his son in the mirror, as he reached into the snacks for another cookie. "I know these are making me a happy traveller."

"We're supposed to be keeping those for RJ," frowned Sam, as RJ made a querulous noise behind them. Sam turned and pulled a face again; RJ apparently didn't find this one amusing enough, because he blew a raspberry, and managed to fling a small blob of second-hand cookie goo at his uncle.

"Oh, yuck!" yelped Sam, as Dean laughed out loud.

"Guess you're just not that entertaining, Uncle Francis," he chuckled. "Don't give up your day job."

RJ pouted adorably, and flapped his hands demandingly. Sam tried a few more faces, but RJ just frowned and babbled stridently, apparently not impressed.

"He's a tough audience," Sam remarked as Dean continued to laugh.

"Don't feel bad about it," he consoled Sam, "It's not your fault – Andrew is a hard act to follow. You're like Justin Bieber sent out on stage to entertain a crowd who've just moshed through a Slayer gig. Can't you, I don't know, wiggle your ears or something?"

"No, Dean, I can't wiggle my ears," replied Sam sourly.

"Come on, you gotta have something you can do."

"Well, you think it's so easy, you try," humphed Sam.

"Fine," smiled Dean, peering into the mirror. "Hey, RJ, look at Daddy! Look at Daddy! Aaaaaaand…. GRRRRRR!"

RJ screwed up his face and farted audibly.

"Careful bro," laughed Sam, "You suck any harder, you'll give your own kid the shits!"

"Bitch," muttered Dean.

"It's okay, Dean," Sam subsided somewhat, "You're his father, so technically, it's your job to piss him off."

"I thought that wasn't supposed to be until later, when he's older," complained Dean.

"Oh, never too early to start," Sam opined cheerfully. "I guess it starts with check-outs lines, telling him 'No, you can't have candy,' then as he gets older it's 'No, you can't have popcorn for dinner' and 'No, you can't have a trailbike', then 'No, you're not big enough to fire the Desert Eagle', then 'No, I don't care if 'all the other kids' have one', then 'No, you can't go to that party', then 'No, you can't have the car tonight', and then 'No, you can't have a beer', 'No, you cannot have a female friend for a sleep-over', then 'So help me if you present me with a grandchild before you turn twenty I will kill you with my bare hands'…"

"Hey!" protested Dean, "He's only six months old! And I'm not going to piss my kid off. I'm an awesome dad, remember?"

"Now, maybe," intoned Sam ominously, "But there will come a time when he thinks you are the most ignorant, pig-headed, backward, irritating asshole on the face of the Earth."

"You can't know that!" squawked Dean in outrage. "How the fuck can you know that?"

"Because I was a kid once," Sam told him smugly, "And I remember."

"Yeah, well, my kid isn't going to be a rebellious, sullen, moody little bitch," sniffed Dean disdainfully. "I am not raising another emo. I'm going to be an awesome dad, and RJ is going to be an awesome kid…"

An unhappy burble from the back seat drew their attention back to their very demanding audience.

"Can't you look at the scenery, or something?" asked Dean wistfully.

"Hold on, we had emergency preparation for this," muttered Sam, fishing around in the snacks box, "Aha! Here we go! Aaaaaaand…" He turned around to pull a face for RJ. "GRRRRRRRRRRR!"

RJ giggled, and waved his cookie remains.

"So, it turns out you can actually do something amusing after all," laughed Dean, "So what is it, can you make your sideburns waggle, or is i-aaaaaaaaargh! What the fuck?"

"Candjy teef," explained Sam, grinning to show off the confectionery dentition jammed under his top lip. "Not authentic, but probably less trouble than getting bitten at the full moon and learning to control the shapeshift."

"Gimme," instructed Dean. Sam held out the packet, and his older brother jammed a set into his own mouth. "GRRRRRRR!" he went, pulling a ferocious face in the mirror.

RJ let out a shriek of laughter, then farted long loud and wetly. Lemmy sniffed at his diaper, and whined.

"Nice job, Dad," Sam burst out laughing, "You amused your kid so hard he shat himself!"

"We should probably be looking for somewhere to eat anyway," Dean sighed, taking an exit as RJ started to make the protesting noise that meant he'd like a waste collection performed in the very near future. "Right after we deal with the greenhouse emissions. Hey, if I'm giving you the shits already, it just shows how advanced you are for your age, right, kiddo?"

RJ grimaced and flung more cookie mush, which hit Dean in the back of the head.

Dean sighed, and looked for a place to pull over, whilst fantasising about hothousing the kid for baseball, then living off his earnings when he turned pro.

**...oooooOOOOOooooo... ...oooooOOOOOooooo... ...oooooOOOOOooooo... ...oooooOOOOOooooo... ...oooooOOOOOooooo...**

"Whoa, you're as cute as they come, RJ, but I really can't wait for you to grow out of the diaper thing," commented Dean, as RJ burbled and kicked his legs while his father changed him. "That'll be a milestone we celebrate."

"He's gonna have so many milestones," Sam said, "He hasn't even started yet."

"I think he's on the verge of crawling," Dean smiled down at his son, "He was kind of pushing up on all fours, and wiggling forward a bit during babyrobics. It's kind of amazing," he went on, in a voice full of wonderment, "We've got so much to look forward to: first time crawling, first time walking, then first words, first adult tooth…"

"I was thinking about when he's a teenager; I want to be there," Sam went on gleefully, "The first time he goes out after you've told him not to, the first time he breaks curfew, the first time you figure out he's stolen your booze, the first time he takes the car without asking you, the first time you find condom wrappers in his laundry…"

Dean suddenly looked stricken. "Condoms?"

Sam gave Dean a knowing look. "Dean, he's the son of the Living Sex God. One day, he'll be a teenager. And I sure as hell hope that you'll have The Talk with him well before he starts trying to do research for himself. Then buy him a packet for his fourteenth birthday."

"I am not buying rubbers for my son for his fourteenth birthday!" squeaked Dean.

"Well, it's what you gave me," shrugged Sam. "You're not getting squeamish, are you? I mean, you've been regaling me with tales of The Living Sex God's sexcapades since I was about twelve." He looked thoughtful. "You want me to have The Talk with him? Since I'll be his favourite uncle. Well, his only uncle, in fact…"

"Sam, don't you dare discuss… stuff with my boy," demanded Dean.

"I was just thinking that I'd probably do it in a more educational, less… colourful way than his Auntie Felicity."

"Sam…"

"And Great-Uncle Bobby would probably just let him watch the dogs next time one of 'em breeds. And that could get awkward, if he goes away wondering how long humans get stuck together for afterwards."

"Sam…"

"You want me to get him condoms for his fourteenth birthday?"

"Don't you dare!" yelped Dean. "Don't you dare! Sam, I forbid you to buy rubbers for RJ, is that clear?"

"No big deal," Sam grinned, "He'll probably just steal them from you."

"He's not gonna be like that," Dean said in an uncertain voice, "I'll teach him to drive as soon as he's big enough, sure, he needs to know that, but he so much as looks at a bottle before he's of age, or a girl for that matter, or touches my Baby without express permission, I'll ground him until he's thirty… what's so funny?"

Sam couldn't stifle his laughter. "You had it so wrong with Veritas," he chortled fondly, "You might be a killer, but you were born to be a dad. It's a good thing for you," he picked up RJ, "That he had me to practise on first. Dean, you got spit-up on your shirt."

"Whatever," Dean wiped absently at the splodge with a baby wipe, then repacked the diaper bag. "Just when I think I've got my head around this whole I Have A Kid thing, whammo, it hits me again." He made another surreptitious attempt to remove the dog-ears beanie from RJ's head, but his son pouted epically, and whacked at his hand. "Okay, okay, you can wear the stupid hat," he sighed, as Sam buckled RJ into his seat. "I got a baby seat in the back of my Baby. With a baby in it." He shook his head. "Life is really gonna be different, isn't it?"

"For a start, the Living Sex God might have to dial back his extra-curricular activities," Sam pointed out. "I don't think women will find dirty diapers, mushy teething biscuits and splodges of spit-up on your shirt much of a turn-on."

"You're probably right," agreed Dean gloomily. "You know, since RJ arrrived, I've been pretty much too stressed out or too tired to even think about it. How crazy is that? I don't think I've ever gone this long without at least jerking off since I was about twelve…"

"Dean!" snapped Sam, aiming a Bitchface #12™ (I Am Going To Pretend I Didn't Hear What You Just Said You Disgusting Individual) at his brother. "Don't talk like that in front of your son!"

"It's okay," Dean said dismissively, "He only speaks Baby at the moment."

"Babies start to understand language long before they learn to talk," Sam informed him ominously. "I was looking it up."

"Yeah?" Dean sounded fascinated and horrified.

"Totally," Sam nodded, "They start to understand words, and simple phrases, as young as six months. That's why it's important to talk to them in proper language, not baby talk, and read to them. So if you don't want your baby boy's first word to be 'fuck', or his first sentence to be, 'Daddy jerks off', you'll watch what you say around him."

"Oh," responded Dean in a small voice. "Well, I guess I can keep your ongoing education to times when he's asleep." He looked wistful. "I guess that's all I'll have for a while, beautiful memories of beautiful, natural acts…"

"Just keep them to yourself," instructed Sam, keeping a lookout for a diner. He smiled to himself; life didn't often throw him anything except lemons, but circumstances that would enforce an end to his brother's frequent fornication definitely counted as lemonade.

**...oooooOOOOOooooo... ...oooooOOOOOooooo... ...oooooOOOOOooooo... ...oooooOOOOOooooo... ...oooooOOOOOooooo...**

Except it didn't.

"I don't believe it," he muttered, as RJ paused briefly in his feeding to smile and wave back at yet another woman passing their table. "I don't be-fucking-lieve it."

"Believe it, Sammy," Dean positively beamed at his son, "This kid is a total chick magnet!" RJ finished his bottle, burped, and wiggled, indicating that he wished to investigate his father's plate. "Pie," Dean pronounced clearly, "Pie. That's pie. It's yummy. Mmmmmm, pie." RJ poked a finger into a smear of peach filling on the plate, stuck it in his mouth, and then exclaimed with delight, bouncing on his father's lap and reaching for the plate again.

"Well it can't be you," grumped Sam, "You look like crap."

"Well shucks, aint you a sweet-talker," Dean simpered, scooping up another forkful of pie for himself. RJ burbled happily, and swiped a hand across the plate, showing it to Dean before patting his father gently on the chin, then licking his fingers, feet kicking in enjoyment.

"Seriously, bro," Sam went on, sounding bewildered, "You got a kid eating with his hands on your lap, you got pie filling on your chin, you got spit-up on your shirt, it's mis-buttoned, your hair is sticking up, you look so tired that you'd pass for a giant raccoon…"

"You really know how to make a guy feel special, don't you?" Dean batted his eyelashes with annoying cheerfulness. The waitresses had fallen over themselves to serve the Winchesters, and after Dean had told the sad story of how they'd lost Mommy in a car accident, they'd practically been elbowing each other out of the way for the privilege of taking their order, refilling their coffees and clearing their dishes.

"Can I get you guys anything else?" asked the waitress who'd eventually claimed their table, a lady in her thirties who had a lovely smile and a magnificent rack. RJ squealed in enthusiasm, and grabbed at her shirt. "You teaching your boy bad habits?" she enquired archly of Dean.

"He has an innate appreciation of the female form," Dean smiled back, then ordered more pie.

"It has to be something hormonal," Sam theorised, "Something happening at a very basic level. Maybe it's seeing you with a cute kid, and knowing you don't have a partner, and somewhere in the hind brain, some instinct says, look at him, he's clearly virile, he spawns cute kids, that makes him attractive, even if his hair looks like a toilet brush…"

"The Living Sex God is innately hot at all times," grinned Dean, turning his smile to thank the waitress as she put down a plate with another slice of pie in front of Dean, and a saucer with a small dollop of filling in front of RJ. The baby babbled at her happily, reached up to pat her chest, then smacked his hand enthusiastically into the sticky glob. She laughed, and they heard two other waitresses go 'Awwwwwwww.' "He cannot help it if women find him irresistible, even if he is not looking his absolutely awesome best for some very good reason," Dean added after she'd left. "I once hit on this nurse while I was laid up after tangling with a seriously angry spirit, it threw me into a wall, and I had a broken arm, and gravel rash all down one side, and half my face was purple with bruises, but we still managed to…"

"AAAAARGH!" yelped Sam. "Dean, this is ridiculous! Being a dad, having a kid, was meant to slow you down! Not make you even hornier! He's meant to be a libido-killer, not a neon sign flashing 'Come And Get It Ladies!'!"

"I know!" Dean beamed, "Who'da thunk it?"

As they left the diner, RJ was starting to nod and grizzle. "I think we'd better find somewhere to stop," decided Dean, "We've done a few hours on the road already, so let's quit while we're ahead. RJ needs to nap, then he'll want to eat again, and we haven't done babyrobics yet today. Plus, he'll need some play-time."

"Well, at least you're talking a bit more like a responsible adult," conceded Sam grudgingly.

"We gotta do what's best for RJ," stated Dean judiciously, settling RJ into his seat.

"Totally," agreed Sam.

"Which means, putting his well-being first."

"Absolutely," Sam replied.

"So we take all measures we possibly can to keep him as happy and healthy as possible, even if it means travelling more slowly than we would've done before."

"Yeah, that goes without saying."

"That also includes looking after Daddy, and Uncle Sammy, too, so they are best able to look after him."

"Yeah, definitely."

"So I might have a nap, too. Since you think I look tired."

"That's probably a good idea, Dean."

"And Uncle Sammy can go and spend a couple of hours out doing his own thang, go find a library to nerd it up, or some interesting architecture to look at, or a public lecture about feminism and its place in modern politics, or a hipster coffee shop to sit around in looking emo."

"Dean, I don't have to…"

"No, no, I_ insist_, Sam. It's important that you have me-time, too, bro. For your own well-being. So you can keep being an awesome uncle."

"Well, yeah, I guess so. Thanks Dean."

"Then tonight, you can give RJ his bath, while I have me-time."

"Sure, bro, I'd be happy to do that for you."

"Because me-time is important for Daddy too. So he can keep being an awesome dad."

"Yeah, totally. You wanna be careful, Dean, people will accuse you of being sensible."

"Just trying to do what's best overall for RJ. So, you can do bath time, and maybe read him a story…"

"He loves stuff from Wikipedia, I'll find another animal page."

"…While I go and do me-time with Paula, and…"

"_What?"_

"Paula. Our waitress. Look." Dean flipped a paper napkin at Sam. It had a number on the back. "While you were in the men's room, she offered to help me with me-time this evening, and…"

"You are not abandoning your son to go and get laid," snapped Sam.

"I'm not abandoning him!" insisted Dean, "I'd be leaving him with Uncle Sammy for a couple of hours! And Lars and Lemmy will be on guard the whole time, he'd be completely safe!"

"Don't you dare," growled Sam.

"Fine," humphed Dean melodramatically, flouncing around to the driver's door, "I'll do me-time in our room, if they got porn on cable. Or maybe in the shower, while you read to RJ…"

"Oh, gross!"

"I'll become like a house-bound mom, watching daytime television and eating chocolate and sobbing into a pile of dirty baby clothes."

"Dean…"

"And the most interesting thing I'll experience all day is an introduction to the amazing Whopper Chopper, available for only three easy payments of $29.99, with complimentary Fizzer Whizzer at no extra charge to the first ten customers."

"Dean…"

"I'll just be reduced to a sad, lonely shadow of my former self, who can't talk about anything except burping, tummy time and diaper rash, because hey, that's all my world consists of, give or take the odd bout of teething screaming."

"Dean…"

"But you enjoy your architecture and your coffee, and your feminism lecture, if you have the gall to show your face, that is, knowing that you've left me behind to go and enjoy yourself, you chauvinist pig."

"Dean…"

"If I end up with post-natal depression because I can't get out of the house, it'll be on you."

"Call Bobby if you want some contact with the outside world, you jerk."

"Bitch."

* * *

Reviews are the Delicious Pieces Of Pie in the Diners along the Highway Of Life!*

*Let me know if you insist on having it served up by the Winchester Of Your Choice.**

**I'm not sure they'll be to happy about being put into sexy waiter outfits.


	18. Chapter Eighteen

**Lampito: **Take this to CapnB, her teeth are still giving her trouble.

**Dean: **This apron isn't giving me much coverage…

**Lampito: **It's chocolate pudding, it's not overly hot – just watch out for the custard, is my advice. You never know, she might give you a tip.

**Dean: **Don't wanna! *he pouts*

**Lampito: **Go on, be a good little sexy waiter.

*Dean just glares*

**Lampito: **Go on, go and wait. Or would you rather be a sexy cowboy?

**Dean:** MEEEEEEP! *he grabs tray and scuttles away*

* * *

**Chapter Eighteen**

"Did you call Bobby?" asked Sam, hefting their duffels into the trunk as they prepared for the next leg of their journey.

"Not yet," sighed Dean sadly, putting RJ into his seat.

"Well, don't you think you'd better tell him soon?" pressed Sam.

"You could have called him," answered Dean, "While you were enjoying your coffee, or strolling through a gallery, or admiring a particularly fine specimen of _Weirdus plantus_ in the park..."

"Dean," Sam said firmly, "You have to tell him! We can't just show up with RJ. Not without Bobby having some sort of cardiac episode."

"I guess it would be too much to expect you to do it during your me-time," Dean sighed again, "You coffee-drinking, library-visiting, gallery-strolling, plant-viewing me-time, while I'm trapped in the same four walls with the baby..."

"The two of you seemed to be happy enough when I got back," Sam noted wryly. He had returned with coffee and doughnuts to cheer up his 'house-bound' brother, only to find him lying on the bed, with RJ balanced on his bent knees and grasping his father's hands. Dean was making aeroplane noises while the child shrieked with hilarity, and flapped his limbs. They had then amused themselves by 'strafing' Uncle Sammy as he attempted to use his laptop. With the dogs barking in excitement, and a turbo prop child being zoomed past him every thirty seconds (getting into the spirit of the thing by raspberrying wetly in his ear), Dean had looked nothing like a bored housewife.

"I was just trying to tire RJ out so he'd sleep," Dean stated firmly, "Which would've allowed me to go and have a little bit of me-time, too, if my baby brother wasn't so mean and selfish..."

"Oh, God, are you still sulking about that?" huffed Sam. "I was only gone for an hour! Don't be such a drama queen."

"I'm hurt rather than angry, Sam," Dean said.

"Huh. I know you had your 'me-time' too; you used my shower wash again, you jerk, don't think I don't notice," accused Sam.

"I could've had more than Special Me-Time, Sam," Dean said wistfully, "It could've been Special Cuddles, with Paula. You've disappointed two people, you know, her as well as me. For the Living Sex God may not pass this way again..."

RJ let out a low moaning grumble.

"And you've disappointed RJ too," accused Dean, "You've made his Daddy unhappy, and he doesn't like that."

"He's grizzling because his teething is hurting him again," Sam rolled his eyes, and offered RJ a chunk of frozen carrot. The boy took it and shoved it into his mouth, chomping it against his sore gum. "I think it must just about be ready to break through; it's looking red, and he was unsettled last night."

"You're telling me," Dean commented with a yawn. It had taken several applications of teething gel, a frozen rawhide, two readings of 'Go The Fuck To Sleep', the Wikipedia page on honey badgers, and some YouTube clips of said honey badgers to settle him back to sleep after his feed at zero dark hundred. "He was really keen on those honey badgers, though. I wonder if Bobby would let him have one as a pet at his place?"

"They're native to Africa and Asia, they're vicious carnivores and they can harbour diseases including rabies," Sam reminded him as he slid into shotgun, "They are most definitely not suitable as pets. Weren't you paying attention?"

"Not really," Dean shrugged, "I was too busy musing on what might have been, the beautiful potential for beautiful natural acts..."

"Jerk."

RJ was less cheerful for their second day back on the road; the carsickness had abated, and he amused himself by chewing on Oinker Stoinker, his own feet, and Lemmy's ears, but there was also grizzling and fussing, even as Sam kept him supplied with cold things to chew, and silly faces augmented by candy teeth.

"Oh, what's up, little dude?" crooned Dean, when they stopped for a diaper change and a feed. RJ clung to Dean, who rocked him and shushed him. "Those damned teeth are giving you hell, aint they? Sam, get me the chocolate pudding."

"He hasn't had his bottle yet!" protested Sam.

"When you feel like crap, you need comfort food, and fuck the nutrition fairy," Dean replied.

"This stuff won't help with his teething," Sam pointed out.

"Maybe not," agreed Dean, "But it will make him feel better. Never underestimate the soothing power of a well-timed serving of pie, Sam. Or the baby equivalent."

Muttering about the terrible spectre of childhood obesity, Sam fished one of the emergency chocolate pudding rations out of the trunk. "We need to get some proper baby spoons, so we can boil 'em between uses, and they're safe for him to chew on if his teeth ar-DEAN!"

"What?" Dean opened the jar, and held it up for RJ to poke his fingers into. He tasted the gooey brown gunk, smiled, and shoved his hand back in.

"Why are you letting him eat like that?" demanded Sam.

"Because he thinks it's fun," Dean answered, as RJ offered a pudding-smeared hand to Dean. "Mmmmmm, nom nom nom nom," went Dean, pantomiming tasting the offered treat. RJ smiled a little, and sucked his fingers. Lemmy and Lars sat attentively, watching for the fall of the smallest drop of pudding.

"At least put a cloth over your... uh, too late," sighed Sam, as RJ splatted a handful of pudding onto Dean's shirt, then considered his work thoughtfully. He patted his pudding-coated hand on Dean's face, then dived in to suck on his shirt. With a roll of his eyes, Sam proffered the baby wipes. "I notice that your new status as house-bound mom doesn't stretch to being house-bound enough to do the laundry."

"It's my post-natal depression," claimed Dean, "Sapping my energy."

"Dean," began Sam through clenched teeth, "Post-natal depression is a real and serious illness, with a complex aetiology, that affects a woman's capacity to cope with the demands of caring for a baby. You are suffering from grumpiness over not getting laid. You do not have a medical condition, Dean, you have SSS – Sulking Sexlessness Syndrome."

"It's real, Sammy, it's painfully real," moaned the Living Sex God. "I wouldn't expect you to understand, what with suffering from SSS, Sex-free Sam Syndrome." He started the car, and pulled out onto the road. "The least you could do during your me-time sometime is find a hot librarian, get laid, then come back and tell me all about it."

"Jerk."

**...****oooooOOOOOooooo****... ...****oooooOOOOOooooo****... ...****oooooOOOOOooooo****... ...****oooooOOOOOooooo****... ...****oooooOOOOOooooo****... **

They stopped at a moderately busy cafe for lunch, and having a whole new audience to charm seemed to brighten RJ up considerably: he stopped grizzling, drank his bottle without fuss, then sat on Dean's lap, swapping amongst poking at his father's plate, gumming at a fry he commandeered, and looking around for somebody to smile at.

"It beggars belief," grumbled Sam, as the waitresses found excuses to come by their table to say hello to the adorable child in the cute hat, and then make eyes at the unkempt man on whose lap he sat. "You look tired, you're unshaven, you're wearing chocolate pudding for cologne, and they're still circling like vultures..."

"Chicks dig stubble, Sam," Dean grinned smugly, supporting RJ's arm so he could wave back to the waitress behind the counter. "And maybe I'm just ahead of the curve; I was wearing chocolate pudding before it was cool."

"Maybe it's a fascination with wondering how you'd clean up," mused Sam, "It appeals to maternal instincts. They see the pair of you, and think, there's two dirty little boys who need cleaning up..."

"I'd love a chance to be a dirty little boy, just for an hour or two," Dean waggled his eyebrows suggestively as they made their way back to the car, "And I promise to clean up before I come back."

"Oh, God, you have such a one-track mind," wailed Sam.

"Two-track, Sam, two-track," Dean corrected him, putting a sleepy RJ into his seat. "I think about food a lot, too."

"At least with food, you can order in," huffed Sam.

"Well, technically, you can order sex in, too," Dean pointed out.

"AAAAARGH!" squawked Sam, giving Dean a searing Bitchface #1™ (Dean, I Don't_ Believe_ You Just Did/Said/Ate/Punched/Shot/Had Sex With That!), "Don't you dare! Don't you dare even THINK about it!"

"Of course not," declared Dean disdainfully. "The Living Sex God does not have to pay for it. In fact, he could charge for it. There was this job in Vegas, while you were at Stanford, and I needed a stake to raise some cash, and..."

"DEAN!"

Supply and demand, Sam, supply and demand. Speaking of which..." he flashed another number-adorned napkin at Sam, along with a dazzling smile. "I got a demand for my supply."

"Another waitress?" groaned Sam.

"The barista," grinned Dean. "So, tonight, after you have me-time..."

"You cannot, _cannot_, leave your child to go catting around!"

"Please, Sam?"

"Dean..."

"Please? Please?"

"Dean..."

"Pleeeeeeease?" Dean turned a pair of big puppy-dog eyes on his brother.

"You pull that face again, I'll sue you for breach of copyright," he huffed.

"Come on, Sam," wheedled Dean, "Look, he's settled down now." RJ was indeed snoozing in his seat. "This is me, your big brother, telling you he needs some me-time."

"Dean..."

"I won't be gone for long, you'll be fine."

"Dean..."

"Please, Sam, baby bro, who I saved from fiery death as a baby, who I pretty much raised, sacrificing my childhood so you could almost have one, who I went to Hell to save, who I didn't abandon when Lucifer was feeling you up from the inside, who I covered for when you broke that bespelled goblet at Bobby's place while you were trying to come up with a spell to make ammunition reproduce itself..."

"Dean, that's emotional blackmail."

"No, it's just plain blackmail. If I don't get a hall pass for me-time, I will tell Bobby what happened to that goblet."

"All right, all right," Sam raised his hands in surrender. "Me and RJ can amuse ourselves for a little while." He turned around to look at his napping nephew, and smiled. "We'll do bath time, and maybe some more Wikipedia pages – plus, I got the text of 'Winnie the Pooh' and 'Green Eggs And Ham' in Latin."

"Seriously?" Dean marvelled.

"Ronnie gave 'em to me," Sam explained.

"She's teaching Connor Latin already?"

"Actually, she's using them to teach Andrew – she says if Connor picks any up, that's a bonus."

"Well, maybe next time he has to exorcise Crowley, he'll be able to do it more fluently, you know, less painfully for the King of Hell."

"You say that like it's a good thing."

They found a motel, checked in, and Sam headed to the local library for his me-time before returning with their dinner to take over babysitting for the evening.

"There," Dean indicated RJ, who was sound asleep, "All you gotta do when he wakes up is amuse him for an hour or so, then he'll want another feed and his bath, then bed. Read him the local council by-laws on pet registration, I'm sure you'll find that equally fascinating."

"Go on, jerk," Sam rolled his eyes. "And don't stay out all night."

"I won't, Mom," grinned Dean, picking up his jacket and his keys.

Sam looked down at RJ, who had Lars and Lemmy lying relaxed but watchful on either side of his crib, and smiled. He really was a cute and engaging baby; flying solo wasn't going to be so bad, especially since the day's grizzling had apparently tired the kid out. He was starting to enjoy story times, and the whole bath thing, well who knew it would be such a hoot washing a giggling baby? He started up his laptop, and started to scan some documents he'd downloaded at the library. While RJ was asleep, he might as well get some work done.

Sam had been cross-referencing for about ten minutes when he heard a sleepy gurgle from the crib. He picked RJ up, and watched him yawn.

"Hey there, tiger, you awake?" he smiled. "Guess what – it's just you and me! So we can do some smart-kid stuff without Daddy to bug us! How about we have a story? We can start you on some Latin! Or would you like to play with Oinker Stoinker? I know, what about another documentary? I downloaded some articles on honey badgers for you..."

RJ blinked, looked around the room, then looked at his uncle.

Then he screamed.

**...****oooooOOOOOooooo****... ...****oooooOOOOOooooo****... ...****oooooOOOOOooooo****... ...****oooooOOOOOooooo****... ...****oooooOOOOOooooo****... **

As a Hunter, Sam was no stranger to frightening noises. He had heard a newly turned vampire shriek its hunger for his blood. He had heard the screech of the banshee. He had heard angels' True Voices, and lived to tell the tale (To their credit, Castiel and Gabriel had apologised profusely, and taken their shouting match to the summit of K2). He had heard the howling of Hellhounds on his trail. He had heard the roaring and snarling of male Old North Werewolves fighting like they meant it. He had been roundly upbraided by Bobby Singer. When his sleep was restless, occasional nightmare memories of Karaoke Nights in the Cage would bubble up.

None of those sounds had terrified him the way RJ's ceaseless crying was doing.

"Hey, hey, it's okay," he told the screaming child, trying to stop his voice from sounding too desperate. RJ clearly didn't believe him: face red, lungs bellowing, the boy howled as if he was being eaten alive by rabid honey badgers.

"You don't need changing yet - oh, God, are you sick?" asked Sam. "Can babies get appendicitis?"

RJ responded by grabbing a fistful of Sam's shirt, and briefly chomping on it before resuming his bawling.

"Oh, no, teeth, huh?" mused Sam. "Here, let's get you something cold to chew on."

After handing several frozen items to the baby, and having them hurled back at him with surprising force, including a piece of banana that hit him in the eye, Sam decided to try something stronger.

"Okaaaay, let's get the the gel, and try that. Here, I'll have that rawhide for my eye."

Ten minutes later, the contents of the tube of teething gel were spread over RJ's gums, RJ's chin, RJ's hands, Sam's chin, Sam's hands, Sam's shirt, the sofa and Lemmy's ears. None of it seemed to make any difference.

Sam pulled candy teeth faces. He waggled Oinker Stoinker. He started a lecture on the peculiar dietary habits of the blue squeaky pig. RJ was having none of it.

"Oh, God," wailed Sam, jiggling the boy, "What's wrong, huh?"

Faced with a seemingly intractable problem, Sam did what he always did: he went to his laptop to do research.

"Okay," he said uncertainly, bouncing RJ fruitlessly in his lap, "It says here, you might be hungry. Are you hungry? You want an early dinner? Let's try early dinner..."

RJ didn't want his bottle, and when he finally did latch onto it for a few seconds, it was only to take a few mouthfuls so he could spray most of it back in Sam's face with a particularly gurgling shriek.

"Okay, so, no formula," decided Sam, wiping the mess from his eyes and surveying the damage to his shirt, "You want the comfort food again? Yeah, fuck the nutrition fairy, open the chocolate pudding."

RJ paused briefly to investigate the proffered treat, then whacked at the jar, sending most of the contents down the front of Sam's pants.

"Not hungry, then," Sam sighed, readjusting his grip on the squirming child. "It also says, you might just want to be held and cuddled. Is that it? You just need some reassurance? We can do that."

He positioned RJ carefully on his shoulder, and rocked him the way he'd seen Dean do. RJ hiccuped into silence.

"There you go," Sam smiled in relief, "You were just feeling lonely, huh?"

RJ puked up the small amount of early dinner he hadn't sprayed all over Sam down his uncle's back, then resumed his crying.

"Oh, yuck," moaned Sam, trying to peer down over his shirt to assess the damage. "So, that's a no go on being held. Uh, it also suggests, let you suck on something, we've tried that, no joy... needing diaper changed, that's a negative... ah, a warm bath, you like bath time, let's have an early bath, huh, that'll be fun for both of us."

Bath time turned into the sort of aquatic adventure that might not have been quite as dramatic as the landing at Normandy, but Sam certainly ended up soaking wet and shell-shocked. In addition, the tiled surfaces gave RJ's screaming operatic accoustics.

There was a sudden pounding on the wall from the next room, and an angry voice shouted "Shut that kid up!"

"He's teething!" Sam shouted back. RJ raised his voice by way of demonstration. "Shhhhh," he soothed, "You don't want to get us thrown out of here, do you?"

RJ's redoubled efforts implied that he didn't really give a damn if they slept in the gutter.

At the behest of baby sites he found online, Sam tried reading one of the honey badger articles, but found it impossible without shouting over RJ to make himself heard. He tried walking RJ up and down outside, jiggling and soothing; the angry man from next door stuck his head outside to yell, but subsided to just glaring when he saw the size of Sam. He even took RJ to do the laundry, and sat him on top of the machine as it washed. The kid managed to be louder than the spin cycle on an elderly and sporadically maintained washing machine. Even a few verses of 'The clothes in the dryer go round and round' didn't impress; Sam wondered briefly whether it would be any quieter if he could put RJ down, and shut himself inside a dryer, just for five minutes.

When the laundry was done, he took the howling child back to their room, eye throbbing and head aching, and clicked another link.

" 'Wait it out'?" he read incredulously. "Wait it out? Are they really suggesting... Jesus H. Christ, it says here that children can do this for hours!" He peered at RJ. "You can't do that! You have to calm down! I'll be completely deaf by then!"

RJ's howls suggested he didn't care if every organ in Sam's body exploded, he wanted to cry, and so he would damn well cry.

Sam took a deep breath, and went back to the laptop. "Sometimes, babies cry because they just want to cry... seriously?" He looked at RJ incredulously. "You do this for fun? Are you nuts?" He slammed the laptop shut in frustration.

By inference, then, RJ was having the time of his life.

"I'm going to kill Dean," Sam muttered, "I'm going to kill Dean, because this is all his fault, he's a horny idiot who can't keep it in his pants, and now I gotta wear the consequences because even with a fucking goddess he _still_ can't keep it in his pants, and OH GOD RJ WILL YOU PLEASE JUST SHUT THE FUCK UP!?"

It was impressive; RJ's screaming was at least as loud as his own.

"I will cut that asshole's balls off," shrieked Sam, "I've had enough! I can't deal with this! I swear, I will cut his fucking balls off! He will not have any more kids, and he will sing soprano for the rest of his fucking life, but I..."

He glanced back at the laptop, and had an idea.

He opened it up again, offering it a silent apology for treating it roughly, and went back to the page he'd been looking at.

Gritting his teeth against the unrelenting aural assault, he quickly constructed a playlist and set it on loop, then improvised a serviceable baby sling from one of his plaid shirts. The site suggested that movement and soothing music might help...

The author of the article on soothing a crying baby probably never had the metal genre in mind when it was written, but if it worked on Dean, he was desperate enough to try it. Hell, he was desperate enough to try oompah band music or Icelandic nose flute, if it came to it.

The opening chords of 'Creeping Death' blasted from the speakers.

Sam had never wanted to learn Metallica songs, but he'd heard so many of them so often, they'd wormed their way into his brain and taken up residence, putting posters on the walls, dropping clothes on the floor, and helping themselves to the contents of the fridge. He found he was able to sing along with most of them.

They gently moshed through 'Creeping Death', then waltzed through 'Low Man's Lyric', swayed through 'Fade To Black', then jiggled through 'Battery'.

The screaming subsided to crying, which gave way to grizzling, which gave way to yawning, which gave way to snuggling.

Sam didn't know whether he wanted to shout in triumph, burst into tears of relief, or just fall asleep too. He settled for smiling at his nephew.

"You really are your dad's kid, aint ya?" he commented, as RJ looked up and yawned hugely. "What the...? Hey, RJ, look at that!" A tiny sliver of pale enamel showed against the red of the baby's lower gum. "It's come through! The fucker is finally through! You did it, RJ! Oh, we gotta tell Daddy as soon as he gets home!"

RJ didn't seem to be that excited about the appearance of his first tooth; he yawned again, then settled against Sam to nod off.

Not wanting to disturb the kid, Sam carefully toed off his shoes then slid onto his bed and undid his improvised sling. He checked his watch; Dean would be home soon. He thought he should probably put RJ to bed, then get cleaned up himself, but the silence was so blissful, he figured he'd earned the right to just sit there, and enjoy it for a few minutes. Lars and Lemmy jumped onto the bed, sniffing carefully at RJ to check that the pup of their pack was finally settled.

Just a few minutes, he told himself as the dogs stretched out beside him, we've totally earned it...

**...****oooooOOOOOooooo****... ...****oooooOOOOOooooo****... ...****oooooOOOOOooooo****... ...****oooooOOOOOooooo****... ...****oooooOOOOOooooo****... **

When Dean returned shortly after, the second thing he noticed was that Sam had been making notes on what looked like a job. He made a mental note to ask Sam about it the next morning. Maybe in between descriptions of the evening's beautiful natural acts.

The first thing he noticed was how quiet it was. That was because he found Sam asleep, arms carefully around RJ, who snuggled onto his chest. They both snuffled occasionally. Lars and Lemmy lay on either side of Sam, relaxed but with eyes watchful.

"So, everything cool here, guys?" he asked. The dogs replied with wagging tails.

He took in the formula-and-pudding stains on Sam's clothes, and what seemed to be the start of a black eye, and wondered what the hell had happened, but he decided that it could wait. Careful not to wake either of them, Dean extracted RJ and put him into his crib, then pulled a blanket over Sam.

But not before he'd taken a picture.

* * *

Now maybe Leahelisabeth will calm down a bit. Gosh, what could Sam have found?

Oh, yeah,** An AUTHOR CREDIT **goes to Nyx Ro, because honey badgers are awesome…

There, I wrote you a nice long chapter, so don't stint on feeding Nathaniel the plot bunny nice juicy reviews - for they are the Awesome Honey Badgers Sinking Their Teeth Into The People Who Annoy You On The Savannah Of Life!*

*Do not go drizzling honey on the Winchester Of Your Choice; it might attract honey badgers.**

**Or other Denizens.


	19. Chapter Nineteen

**Chapter Nineteen**

The day after Sam's Babysitting Adventure, the Winchesters stopped for lunch at a small roadside place, and sat outside in the unseasonably pleasant sunshine. The waitresses once more seemed to be falling over themselves to get to their table. RJ chomped vigorously on a frozen rawhide, and had apparently put his teething woes on hold; he smiled and laughed at everybody who passed, and put up loud and comical resistance to Dean's attempts to remove his Rottie-ears beanie. "That's really disturbing," complained Dean.

"It's cute," countered Sam, "And everybody thinks he looks adorable in it."

"Not the hat!" griped Dean. "Well, yeah, that hat, it's totally disturbing, but I was talking about your knitting."

"I find it relaxing," shrugged Sam, consulting his scribbled notes before turning his knitting over and starting another row.

"I mean, it's disturbing for me," clarified Dean, "Having my brother knitting. It aint right."

"Well, it's disturbing for me having you harass me with your Chicks I Have Banged stories," Sam shot back – being trapped in the car with Dean while his big brother described some of the things besides pie garnishing that Paula the waitress could do with a can of DairyWhip had done nothing good for his demeanour. "So, guess how much I care about disturbing you? I got a lot of catching up to do. In fact, I'll never catch up. I could knit a slip cover for the Chrysler building, and I'd still be nowhere near catching up."

"Could you at least not do it in public?" Dean whined.

"That's funny, I've had cause to say exactly the same thing to you on a number of occasions," smiled Sam. "I'm going to give your request exactly as much attention as you gave mine."

"You look like a sissy!" yapped Dean.

"You say I look like a sissy anyway," Sam scoffed. "Maybe I'm just secure enough in my masculinity not to care if anybody sees me knitting."

"With hair like that, you cannot afford to do anything that might screw with your masculinity, Sam," insisted Dean. "And you'll screw with RJ's head!" He jjiggled the baby on his knee. "What will he think, if he grows up with an uncle who knits? In public?"

"He'll have an example of a guy who's not hung up on gender stereotypes," Sam smiled smugly.

"Dude, he'll be embarrassed!" yelped Dean. "Won't you, RJ?"

At that point, RJ stretched out a hand to grab at Sam's knitting, then hooted excitedly, kicking his feet and trying to get off Dean's lap.

"Et tu, RJ," Dean muttered. "You'd better not be knitting him another stupid hat."

"I'm not."

"You'd better not me knitting me another stupid hat."

"I'm not."

"You'd better not be knitting yourself another stupid hat."

"Nope. Which reminds me," Sam reached into his pocket and took out his beanie, pulling it onto his head. "Ah, that's better, it's still a bit cold, even in the sun."

"You don't need that on," snapped Dean, "Not with all that hair, your head cannot possibly be cold!"

"Ah, my head feels toasty warm," Sam grinned sunnily.

"You're doing it to embarrass me," growled Dean.

"Is it working yet?" asked Sam solicitously.

Dean surreptitiously flipped him off.

RJ burbled with laughter, then clumsily tried to copy the gesture.

"Oh, God, don't do that," Dean grabbed at his son's hand as Sam shrieked with hilarity.

"Good job, Dad!" he laughed, "Teach your kid to flip people the bird! Hey, RJ!" He extended a middle finger; RJ paused to inspect his hand closely, then clumsily tried to mimic it.

"Don't encourage him!" Dean hissed, slapping at Sam's hand. "He looks like he's throwing gang signs! With that stupid hat, people will think he's a member of some gang called the Rottweilers! He'll get us shot at!"

RJ waved his hands, giggled, and managed an uncoordinated but recognisable flip-off.

"What has been seen cannot be unseen," chortled Sam.

"Why don't you do something useful," growled Dean, "And tell me about what you were reading last night."

"Just something I noticed in a local paper, at the library," Sam told him, taking his laptop out of his bag. "In between my busy busy me-time activities of gallery haunting, coffee swilling and ogling interesting plants. It seemed similar to a story where we stopped the day before; I was going to check it out, but then... well, RJ happened."

"You looked so snuggly when I got back," grinned Dean. "So, you thinking it might be a job?"

"Not sure," Sam replied, "An otherwise healthy young child – one toddler, one baby - being admitted to hospital with unexplained illness after deteriorating suddenly during the night. Authorities are on the watch for a possible outbreak of some virulent meningitis strain, warning parents to keep an eye on their young children. Weird thing is, the parents say they didn't notice anything, and in both cases the kid's crib was in Mom and Dad's bedroom."

"Kids get sick all the time," Dean pointed out reasonably, "And when they do, they often get really sick really fast."

"Yeah, but you know from personal experience now, if a baby so much as twitches in its sleep, at least one parent, usually Mom – or in your case, Dad – will wake up. Especially if the crib is in the same room. It's that baby radar thing."

"Yeah, that's true," Dean mused, pausing to smile and go 'nom nom nom' as RJ carefully offered for inspection a fry purloined from his father's plate. "It's like a kids' Jedi mind trick. 'I am the baby you are waking up for'."

"One dad was beating himself up over it, because he's a chronic insomniac, and that was the one night he picked to get a sound night's sleep right through."

"Anything connecting these kids?" asked Dean.

"Get this," Sam turned the laptop around, "Both of them had recently been winners in a baby pageant." The articles showed pictures of two cute chubby children, adorned with sashes. "But nobody has made any connection, because there's been no disease isolated from either kid, and they're in two different states."

"Was it the same, I dunno, organisation?" pressed Dean. "I got no idea about baby pageants. Except that Lucifer invented them; I'm pretty ure some of the mothers are possessed, at the very least. That Honey Boo-Boo creature, I'm thinking consecrated iron and a knife dipped in mascara might do it…"

"That's what I was looking up last night when Hurricane RJ hit," Sam said ruefully. "It might be nothing..."

"Or it might be something," Dean cut him off. "We gotta stop soon, anyway. You can do your laptop dancing, and check this out. If it's a job, we gotta find out."

"That's what I was thinking, " Sam nodded. "Get as much intel as we can, pass it on to Bobby, he can find somebody to look into it."

Dean pulled the laptop closer. "Two points don't make a pattern," he commented, "But see if you can find any other cases that might fit."

"That's the plan," Sam agreed, as a waitress approached their table.

"Can I get you boys something else?" she asked, bending down to greet RJ, who reached up to her and smiled. "Oh, what would you like, honey?"

"He would like you to bring Daddy a chunk of that apple and blueberry pie, with cream and ice-cream, so he can taste it too," replied Dean, the Killer Smile sliding onto his face. "And maybe Uncle Sammy would like another lettuce leaf, or something, but he won't want to taste that, because lettuce is yucky, unless it's on a burger."

"I'll just have another coffee, thanks," Sam rolled his eyes at his brother.

"We can do that," she smiled back, "Oh, I just love his beanie! Did you knit that?" she asked Sam.

"Uh, yeah," Sam replied, "And I knitted a matching one for Dad, but he won't wear it... aargh!" he fumbled a stitch. "Shit! Sorry. Oh, I've dropped the damned thing, oh, hell..."

"Let me," said another waitress who was making her way past on the other side of the table. She scooped Sam's knitting up, and deftly retrieved the dropped stitch before it unravelled any further. "There you go."

"Oh, hey, thanks," he said gratefully. "This is my first time flying solo."

"Stick with it," she said in an encouraging tone. "There's something really attractive about a guy whose ego will let him knit in public." With a twitch of one eyebrow, she headed back to the kitchen.

"Hmmmm," went Dean thoughtfully as Sam flushed pink, "There might be something to this knitting thing after all."

Their first waitress was back with their order, plus a demitasse on a saucer.

"Here you go, Dad," she smiled, sliding the plate onto the table. "And for Junior here, on the house." The woman behind the counter paused at the coffee machine, and waved to them.

"What is that?" queried Dean

"Sherry calls them steamerettes," explained the waitress, "It's just a bit of frothed milk. Kids love them. Either to eat, or to play with. Since he's allowed to poke at Daddy's pie with cream, we figured it would be okay." RJ stared in fascination at the small cup of fluff, then carefully poked at it. The froth wobbled; he giggled, and clapped his hands before tasting the froth and smiling.

"That's very kind of you," Sam beamed as RJ reached for more froth, "Please thank Sherry for us."

Dean was horrified. "What the fuck is this?" he demanded when the waitress had gone. "They're indoctrinating kids in how to drink sissy girly coffee from the cradle? That's sick!"

"Come on, bro, it's just a bit of frothed milk," Sam pointed out. "And he's fascinated by it. It's good for him to try new things, exercise his curiosity."

"Not on my watch," growled Dean, pushing the cup out of RJ's reach.

RJ stared in confusion, then wiggled determinedly to get to it.

"No," Dean said firmly, pulling him back, "Real men do not drink drinks with fluffy shit on top."

RJ waved at the drink, made an interrogative noise, and looked up hopefully.

"No, repeated Dean, "I will not let you be turned into a girly-man before you can even walk."

RJ turned on a puppy dog face that made Sam's best effort look like a snarling werewolf.

"Uh-uh," reiterated Dean. "This is for your own good, little guy."

The bottom lip trembled. The chin quivered. A single tear slid down RJ's cheek.

"One day, you'll thank me for this," Dean told him judiciously. "What would Grandpa Winchester have said if he saw you with that, huh? You think he drank sissy shit like that? You ever seen me drink sissy shit like that?"

RJ thought about that.

Then, he screamed.

**...****oooooOOOOOooooo****... ...****oooooOOOOOooooo****... ...****oooooOOOOOooooo****... ...****oooooOOOOOooooo****... ...****oooooOOOOOooooo****... **

"That was totally Ronnie's fault," grumped Dean as they walked into the room of their cruddy motel du jour.

"How the hell could it be Ronnie's fault?" demanded Sam.

"She put a curse on me," Dean muttered.

"What? Don't be a dick, she didn't do anything."

"She totally did!" Dean shot back stridently, "She said, 'You wait until you have to deal with this in public'."

"Dean, he's a baby," Sam sighed, "Some sort of outburst in a public place was gonna happen sooner or later."

"They were all staring at me!" complained Dean, "And judging me! As if I was a totally lousy parent! As if I'd done something to upset him!"

"Well, you did do something to upset him," Sam reasoned, "You took away his frothy milk."

"That doesn't make me a bad parent," Dean muttered. "That woman in the blue scarf was glaring at me as if I was torturing him. And I swear, that woman in the red pullover, if looks could kill, I'd be dead twice over..."

"Well, at least it happened to you outdoors," Sam reminded him, "And you had, at your disposal, a way of shutting him up instantly."

"Yeah, well we won't be having that again," Dean griped. When RJ had worked himself into a screaming frenzy over having his cup of froth removed, giving it back to him had been the only way to get him to stop. He hadn't actually calmed completely until Dean had cuddled him, and allowed him to pat a beard of froth onto Daddy's chin. "And you will delete those photos from your cell immediately."

"Are you kidding?" Sam asked incredulously. "That's pure family album gold! Speaking of which, have you called Bobby yet?"

"I will, I will," Dean humphed, wiping at his chin, "Gah! This stuff is worse than rugaru guts."

"I thought it was really sweet of Sherry to give us a steamerette traveller for him," Sam commented.

"She is so going to Hell for that," humphed Dean, making another grab for the paper cup, but Sam snatched it away.

"Nuh-uh, this is RJ's."

"Bitch."

They checked into a motel, and Dean settled RJ on the dogs' blanket, with one of them on each side of him, then headed into the bathroom.

"What are you doing?" asked Sam.

"Getting this crap off my face before somebody makes a Santa Claus joke," Dean growled, "Bring in the rest of our stuff, Francis."

"Yeah, yeah," muttered Sam, "I be dat pack mule. Hey, guys, you stay put, okay?" he smiled. Lars and Lemmy wagged their tails, RJ kicked his legs happily and clumsily flipped him off. "Good job!"

He put down the bags he was carrying, and the paper cup, and headed back out to the car.

**...****oooooOOOOOooooo****... ...****oooooOOOOOooooo****... ...****oooooOOOOOooooo****... ...****oooooOOOOOooooo****... ...****oooooOOOOOooooo****...**

RJ had had an interesting day. One of the great things about being six months old was that every day was interesting, especially if you were a Winchester: there were the constants that made him feel secure – his father, his uncle, his canine guardians, and the now-familiar surrounds of the car – as a background to something new to see, to hear, to taste, to experience, to do, every day.

And today, he had been introduced to the _stuff_.

It was frothy. It tasted good. It felt good. It was fun.

And it was just over there.

He looked around; his father was in the other room. His uncle was outside, just beyond the open door. He made an interrogative noise.

"Hang on, little guy," his father called, "Just let Daddy clean up your handiwork, dude."

RJ had inherited two traits from his father: the capacity to pout adorably, and a serious problem with delayed gratification. Both those aspects kicked in as, waving his arms and legs, he turned himself over, and pushed up onto his arms to look around.

Just over there.

He hummed uncertainly to himself, and rocked back and forth on his haunches. It was much too far to reach.

But just over there...

**...****oooooOOOOOooooo****... ...****oooooOOOOOooooo****... ...****oooooOOOOOooooo****... ...****oooooOOOOOooooo****... ...****oooooOOOOOooooo****... **

When Dean heard Sam shout his name, he dropped the towel and was out of the bathroom in one bound, gun in hand, looking immediately for RJ. He paused momentarily when he saw his brother's huge smile.

"Look at him!" chittered Sam excitedly, dropping the bag he'd just brought him, "Look! Look!"

It was awkward. It was uncoordinated. It was halting.

But RJ was crawling his way towards his cup of froth.

"RJ!" Dean dropped his gun, and dropped to all fours beside his son. "You're crawling, dude! You are actually crawling!"

RJ turned an uncertain face towards his father.

"You're doin' great!" Dean encouraged him, "Come on, keep it up!" He edged forward and, encouraged, RJ determinedly followed suit.

With his family cheering him on, RJ reached his cup of froth, and grabbed at it. Dean picked him up, beaming.

"You did it, RJ! You did it!" he crowed, smile almost splitting his head, "You crawled all by yourself!"

"I guess we'll have to start baby-proofing wherever we stay," commented Sam, smiling to see his brother's happiness.

"I guess this is just the start of you growing up, huh?" Dean said. RJ giggled in reply. "Well, that's great, but… don't be in too much of a hurry, okay?"

Dean didn't even complain as RJ made him a new beard of froth.

* * *

Oh dear, RJ is mobile. That's bound to lead to a few grey hairs.

Reviews are the Yummy Frothy Drink Unexpectedly Brought To You During The Winter Of Life!*

*If you wish to crawl towards it, accompanied by the Winchester Of Your Choice, don't get the froth on the rug, we just had it steam-cleaned.


	20. Chapter Twenty

Gooooooo Nathaniel! Funny thing about plot bunnies, the fatter and happier they get on people feeding them nice juicy reviews, the faster they go. It's probably because of quantum.

* * *

**Chapter Twenty**

"Can't you even watch your own kid?" wailed Sam in despair.

"Three seconds, Sam!" Dean insisted plaintively, "I put him down for three seconds, and..."

They turned back to RJ.

In the three seconds that Dean claimed to have put him down for, RJ had zipped across the floor, found Uncle Sammy's open duffel, and pulled out an absolutely fascinating squishy plastic thing...

So now he sat, covered in hair conditioner, and waved the bottle at them, burbling happily.

"At least he'll smell nice," offered Dean sheepishly. "So, er, you want to clean up the floor, or the kid?" Sam swore, shot his brother a Bitchface #10™ (Tonight, You Die In Your Sleep), and started burrowing through the baby bag for a cloth to clean up with.

Having discovered that he could crawl, RJ suddenly had itchy feet – or at least, itchy hands and knees - and couldn't sit still. 'Tummy time' turned into Crawl-a-thon, with RJ laughingly doing laps of the room they were staying in while the dogs and/or an adult Winchester watched like a hawk. No longer content to sit on Daddy's knee, or snuggle on the blanket with the dogs, the travel bug had bit.

He would see something interesting and, rather than reach towards it and make his interrogative noise, he flapped his hands and make his 'put me down' noise, then crawled towards it with astonishing speed. He didn't even have to see something; he would just decide that it was time to move, and off he'd go.

"You could put him on a leash," suggested Sam later, as they loaded up the car.

"I am not putting my kid on a leash," Dean replied firmly, putting RJ into his seat.

"Figures," Sam sighed, "You won't call your dog to heel. You can't even control yourself, sometimes. It would be pure optimism to think you could control your kid..."

"Bitch."

RJ demonstrated a new trick the next day when Dean went to change his diaper. Sam was peering at his laptop as Dean wrangled the diaper bag, when he suddenly heard the surprised shout.

"Hey!"

Sam looked up just in time to see RJ flip himself over and scoot off just as Dean was about to put the clean diaper on him.

"Hey, come back here!" demanded Dean, as RJ giggled and scuttled for the other side of the bed. Lemmy was there to make sure he didn't fall off, and he grabbed the dog's ear and started chewing on it. Lemmy whined, but stayed put, keeping RJ occupied as Dean followed him across the bed and retrieved him.

"You gotta stop that, pal," he told his grinning son, "We can't have you runnin' around bare-assed. People will think you're some sort of happy clappy drippy hippy. They'll think you're Sam's."

"At his age, he can get away with public nudity, I guess," Sam commented.

"That's just what you used to think," Dean smirked. "When you started crawling, the second you were undressed, you were off like a shot! Had an exhibitionist streak in you, dude. And when you started walking, hell, you'd make a break for it at the drop of a hat! There was one time, Bobby and I ended up chasing you across the yard, and man, could you run for such a small kid, wearing nothing but this stupid grin. Beats me how that kid grew up to be such a prude."

"The key phrase there is 'grew up'," scowled Sam, "Something I don't expect you to understand."

As soon as he was dressed again, RJ demanded 'put me down', and crawled rapidly towards Sam. "He could be a race car driver," Dean declared, "He's already trying to set a land speed record."

"Seriously, consider the leash thing," suggested Sam, as RJ arrived at his chair, held up his arms, and made his 'pick me up' noise.

"I'm not putting my kid on a leash!" reiterated Dean firmly, dropping into the other chair at the rickety table and reached for his coffee. "Don't let him do that!"

"Mine's only chocolate," Sam replied as RJ reached for the enticing fluff on top of his uncle's drink, "No caffeine to speak of."

"I don't care if it's got Roger Ramjet's proton pills in it, don't let him play with sissy frothy stuff!" insisted Dean.

"Daddy's so mean, isn't he?" crooned Sam, pulling the drink closer so RJ could reach it. "He's so meeeeeeean." RJ poked his hand into the froth and sucked on his fingers, humming contentedly. "He's clearly starving. Is his bottle ready?"

"Almost. What the hell are you doing there, anyway?"

"Honey badgers, bro." Sam clicked a link, and a video of a honey badger started up. RJ hooted enthusiastically. "What's he doing, RJ? What's he doing?"

Intrigued, Dean wandered around to look at the laptop. "What is he doing?"

"He's chasing the lion away from a kill," explained Sam.

"Yeah?" Dean smiled. "That's kind of cool. He's a lot smaller than the lion, though."

"That doesn't stop 'em. You'd know that, if you listened to the honey badger articles as carefully as RJ does."

"Look at him go!" enthused Dean. "Honey badgers really don't take shit from anybody, do they? 'Dude, what the hell?' 'Fuck off, Simba, I'm hungry.' 'Hey, go kill your own, you fluffy-headed freak!' 'Shut up! Get lost, Puss, or I will buttfuck your soul!'."

"Oh, God," moaned Sam, as RJ shrieked and clapped at Dean's improvised dialogue, "It's supposed to be educational."

"This is educational," Dean said, "It's a life lesson. There's always somebody out there who wants to take away your hamburger. Defend your hamburger like you mean it. And always be prepared to buttfuck somebody's soul before they buttfuck yours."

"That's profound, Dean – you should write a self-help book."

While RJ contentedly drank his bottle, the conversation turned back to Sam's research.

"So, any progress on our sick kids?" asked Dean.

"Yeah." Sam brought up another screen. "I've found three more cases. Similar pattern. Mom and Dad don't wake up, kid goes from happy bundle of energy to desperately ill the next day, no apparent cause."

"What about the pageant thing?" Dean pressed.

"This happened after each of them was in a kiddy pageant," Sam went on grimly. "But they're far enough apart that nobody's picked up a connection." He turned the laptop around; the screen showed a picture of a child sitting in a large flowerpot.

"Jesus Christ, what sort of sick fuck plants kids?!" yelped Dean. "And then posts the evidence on the net? Is this some occult web you've hacked into?" His eyes bugged as he scanned the screen. "Oh, God, they're turning that one into a squirrel! It's got a tail!"

"It's allegedly cute," Sam rolled his eyes. "There's this outfit calling itself Bonnie Babies. It's a photography business that caters to parents who think their kids have what it takes to be child models."

"Oh, God, that is so creepy," shuddered Dean.

"Well, there are legal and legitimate calls for kids to work as models," Sam shrugged, "For baby products, for clothing manufacturers, or toy catalogues. Although I'm prepared to debate the legitimacy of using kids to sell plastic crap to other kids."

"There is not now, nor has there ever been, a legitimate reason to turn a baby into a squirrel," pronounced Dean with absolute certainty.

"A lot of people think it's cute," Sam told him, "They pay money to have their kids dressed up like this, and photographed."

"That's a lot of trouble to go to, just so you've got something embarrassing to take out when he brings home his first girlfriend," Dean said doubtfully, looking at a picture of a child who was apparently transmogrifying into a bumble bee.

"So this outfit has been holding these mall pageants," Sam interrupted Dean with a brisk Bitchface #8™ (You Are Now Officially Talking Complete Shit, Dean), "Advertising their business, and the winners get a folio type shoot as the prize."

"Pushy stage moms," intoned Dean ominously, "It's pushy stage moms, living vicariously through their children because the only modelling work they could ever get would be doing ads for Michelin, and turning their kids into little robot dolls with totally embarrassing haircuts and inflated senses of their own awesomeness. Is there anything as creepy as a mom dressing her kid to look exactly like herself? Or worse, dressing herself to look exactly like her kid. When a hot chick wears a baby doll nightie, that's one thing – when a 250 pound soccer mom wears a baby doll dress with a tutu skirt, we know that Lucifer himself has been walking the Earth doing evil... there's a little guy here wearing nothing but a cowboy hat. How can he ever look any other kid at daycare in the eye, after he sees this?"

"If we could just concentrate on the important stuff for a moment," Sam rolled his eyes. RJ finished drinking, burped, then reached for the laptop and squawked stridently. "See, even RJ thinks you're over-reacting."

Dean appeared to collect himself. "So, this is the common factor?" he asked. "They go along with Mommy to be considered for planting, and the winners end up sick?"

"Pretty much," Sam agreed. "There hasn't been any definitive diagnosis on the kids, either. They just end up with symptoms of some serious illness, but without any actual infection."

Dean's face darkened. "Sounds like a shtriga," he growled.

"That's what I was thinking," Sam nodded, "So, I'm gonna send everything I've got to Bobby, and..."

"You got a list of places and dates?" Dean interrupted sharply. Sam turned the laptop, tapped at the keys, and pushed it back. He watched as Dean took a well-used map, looking between it and the screen; he could practically hear the gears turn as his big brother did his uncanny pattern recognition thing.

"It's heading south-east to north-west," he pronounced, consulting the map.

"That's great," Sam said, "If we tell Bobby that, he can pass on..."

"At our current rate of travel, it'll cut right across our path," Dean told him, "Or we'll cut across it's path."

"Dean..."

"We'll be practically on top of it," Dean went on, "There's no need to hassle Bobby. We'll deal with it."

Sam eyed his brother warily. "Do you think that's a good..."

"We will deal with it," Dean repeated firmly.

Sam suppressed a sigh. Dean had a particular hate-on for fuglies that messed with kids, and given their history, he had a particularly particular hate-on for shtrigas.

"All I meant was, it might not be a good idea now that we've got RJ with us."

"It won't get near him." Dean snapped, lifting his son to a shoulder to burp him. "Find us the next pageant this asshole is going to use as a menu, and get us entered."

"What?" Sam yapped. "Dean, you cannot possibly use RJ as bait!"

"We've used other people's kids," Dean shot back brutally. "Anyway, he won't be 'bait'. We'll just utilise his totally real natural awesomeness to draw it out, make it show itself."

"Dean..." Sam almost whined, looking worriedly at RJ.

"Sam," Dean said in his most serious, I'm-your-big-brother voice, "It will not get near him. I promise you. I promise both of you."

RJ's little face clouded at the seriousness of his father's tone, and he reached out to pat Dean's face, which broke into the beaming smile that always seemed to be there every time he looked at his son. "You're a Hunter, aint ya?" he blew a raspberry on RJ's palm, and the baby giggled and waved his hand. "Ronnie says she can smell it on him. He's got us, he's got the dogs – his family and his pack – to protect him. The fucker won't get near him before we gank it. This is your first con job, RJ – your first performance in the job, as 'Totally Awesome Kid That Any Company Would Kill To Have Advertising Their Stuff'!"

RJ broke into a beautiful, decidedly photogenic smile, and giggled engagingly.

"Great," moaned Sam, "My nephew, the method actor. And I suppose you will be taking the role of Pushy Stage Parent?"

"Totally," grinned Dean, "Which leaves you as Uncle Gopher, behind the scenes, making sure that everything is just right for our darling little superstar in the making, while watching these people for any tells. But I draw the line at feeding him go-go juice. Or planting him. Or matching tutus. So, what does America's Next Top Male Model In Diapers wear to dazzle his audience?"

"Something cute, I guess," answered Sam.

"Well, we better go find something," Dean mused glumly, "See if there's a, you know, a baby stuff store nearby."

"I'm on it," Sam tapped at the laptop.

"Crap," muttered Dean, "I hate shopping for clothes."

"Well, I need some new plaids," remarked Sam a little trenchantly, "I can't think what happened to the ones I had. And you need some new socks; don't think I haven't noticed that you've been stealing mine, jerk."

"Mine had holes in them, bitch."

"Look," sighed Sam, "There's a baby stuff place in a mall not far from here; why don't you go get something for RJ to wear, and I'll get you some socks to stop you stealing mine."

"Sounds like a plan," agreed Dean, "Just don't dick around, all we're doing is getting clothes: get in, get out, get on our way. If you take too long, we'll go without you."

**...****oooooOOOOOooooo****... ...****oooooOOOOOooooo****... ...****oooooOOOOOooooo****... ...****oooooOOOOOooooo****... ...****oooooOOOOOooooo****... **

After they checked out, they headed for the mall Sam had identified, and went their separate ways. Sam located what he needed quickly enough – the layout of one Wal-Mart was much the same as the next – and headed back out to the parking lot. When he saw that he'd beaten Dean back to the car, he felt a small stab of smug self-satisfaction at the way he would be able to give Dean an earful about taking too long shopping for clothes. He slid into shotgun, and grinned to himself.

"Wonder what's holding up Princess Dean, huh?" he said to the dogs, turning to scratch their ears, "Maybe he found a gorgeous little pair of kitten heels, and now he's just trying to talk down the price..."

Five minutes later, he was still grinning.

Ten minutes later, he was practically chortling.

Fifteen minutes later, he was starting to get annoyed.

Twenty minutes later, he was starting to get worried.

Twenty-one minutes later, he was worried. So he pulled out his cell.

"Dean, where the hell are you? Is everything all right? RJ's not having some sort of teething episode, is he?"

"Everything is peachy, okey-dokey and fine, Sammy," Dean's voice was genuinely relaxed, "We're just at the check-out now. Be there soon."

"Uh, okay." Sam paused. "I was only kidding about the kitten heels," he said, half to himself and half to the dogs in the back seat.

A few minutes later though, Dean came striding across the lot, RJ in one arm and a large bag in the other. Sam got out to pop the trunk for his brother.

"I didn't he needed any more bedding," he commented, taking in the size of the bag.

"He doesn't!" chirped Dean, "We got some totally cool stuff! You wanna see?" He thrust RJ into Sam's arms, and opened the bag, pulling out a succession of small RJ-sized tees. "You gotta help me pick out the cutest one. Look!"

He held up a tiny blue shirt with a baby's bottle and a beer bottle on it. The text read: _Daddy's Drinking Buddy_.

"Oh, God," sighed Sam, "It may be sadly appropriate, but I'm not sure you want to convince the judges that you're some sort of alcoholic."

"I'm not," Dean held up another. _Daddy Drinks Because I Cry_.

"No," Sam frowned, "Reference to alcohol, not good."

Dean held up the next one. _I Drink Until I Pass Out._

"Again, technically correct, but perhaps not totally appropriate," commented Sam.

"I like this one," grinned Dean, displaying another. It had a large upward-pointing arrow on it, and underneath that, text reading _Insert Boob Here._

"No. Just... no," Sam said firmly.

"This is cute," Dean beamed, with yet another shirt, reading _They Shake Me!_

"That is in really poor taste," growled Sam, "Shaken baby syndrome is not a laughing matter!"

_Help! They Make Me Watch Barney!_

"No, Dean, that's just another form of child abuse. Not cool."

"How about..." _ I Only Cry When Ugly People Hold Me._

"What happens if his teeth start to hurt while a judge is holding him?

_Spit Happens._

"Like we need reminders about a baby's bodily functions, Dean..."

"Hey Sammy, you'll like this one!" It was red. It had the silhouette of a baby in black. _ iPood._

"Bodily functions, Dean. Don't go there."

_I Just Sharted_

"Seriously? Are you deaf as well as disgusting? How many of these damned things did you... oh, God..."

Somehow, in a section of the baby store stocking garments of dubious taste, Dean had found The Indulgent Baby Mommy Within, and had purchased enough shirts of questionable humour value to keep RJ going until he grew out of them. One after the other, he showed them to Sam, beaming as he displayed each gruesome graphic.

"Come on, Sam, these are hilarious!" laughed Dean, shaking out another shirt. It bore a representation of a download progress bar, and under that:_ Diaper Loading: Please Wait_.

"Noticing a crap theme here, Dean, as in, a theme of crap. I think the whole diapering thing might be getting to you, dude..."

_I 3 BOOBS_

"Crass. Even for you."

_SANTA ISN'T REAL – but I can't read so that's OK_

"Yeah, yeah, hilarious, right up until a kid who _can_ read lays eyes on it and bursts into tears."

_Screw The Bottle – Give Me Boobies!_

"Fixation, much? That one would be right at home on you, but not for a baby pageant, Dean."

_All Mommy Wanted Was A Back Rub_

"Probably a bit more suggestive than would be ideal, Dean..."

_All Daddy Wanted Was A Blow Job_

"For fuck's sake, does your mind ever get above your belt?"

_I Tore Mommy A New One_

"Oh, gross!"

_Fuck The Gerber Baby_

"Dean!" snapped Sam, giving his brother a searing Bitchface #11™ (I Am Appalled Dean, I'm Pretty Sure One Of Us Was Actually Adopted). "These shirts are not funny!"

"Yes they are!" Dean whooped, "They're frigging hilarious!"

"Are you nuts? 'Fuck The Gerber Baby'?" Sam read incredulously, "Do you seriously think that, in a contest to find a baby that has potential to do advertising modelling, a shirt reading 'Fuck The Gerber Baby' will win the judges over?"

"Totally!" beamed Dean, "It's like, Fuck The Gerber Baby, here comes RJ!"

"We'll find something else," growled Sam, "We got a couple of days yet, we'll find something else. Something that's not disgusting, obscene, utterly tasteless, scatalogical, or any permutation or combination of those. Something that you wouldn't be afraid to show to somebody's grandma."

As he spoke, Dean pulled one last shirt out of the bag. It had a picture of a smiling cartoon aeroplane on it, and under that: _Daddy's Wingman._

"He is, you know," Dean smiled, "Being a chick magnet, and all. And when he's older, he'll be my wingman, too, like I was for Dad." RJ cooed, and reached for his father and the shirt, so Sam handed him over.

"Looks like he likes that one, too," Sam conceded with a smile of his own, "So maybe it'll be okay." He went to stuff the shirts back into the bag when he noticed something else in the bottom of it; he pulled out the last garment.

It was brown. It was pre-distressed. And he didn't want to think about how much it had cost.

It was a tiny, RJ-sized leather jacket. Just like Daddy's.

RJ let out a cry of delight, and reached for the jacket. Sam gave it to him, and the boy grabbed at it, snuggling it happily as any child would a favourite cuddly toy.

"What was that about parent-kid lookalike outfits being creepy?" Sam teased Dean.

"We won't be creepy," Dean smiled smugly, "We'll be awesome! That's just how we roll. Right RJ?" RJ hummed, and hugged his jacket. Dean looked thoughtful. "Now, all we have to do is find a shirt in my size that says 'I heart boobs, too'."

"Or not."

"How about, 'Baby's Drinking Buddy'?"

"No."

"Or, 'Is There A Gerber Woman I Can Fuck?'?"

"No!"

" 'I Never Did Get That Blow Job'?"

"Jerk."

* * *

Reviews are the Hilarious Graphics On The T-Shirt Of Life!

_***WHOOSH***_

**Dean and Sam:** AAAAAAAARGH!

All right, all right, who put them in wet shirts reading 'Denizen Bait'? *frowns and taps foot*


	21. Chapter Twenty-One

**Chapter Twenty-One**

Their path turned more southerly over the next couple of days, as they identified the next mall that would be holding a Bonnie Babies pageant.

"Did you call Bobby yet?" asked Sam.

"No, but I will," Dean assured him, jiggling RJ. The boy had been a little fussy – inspection of his gums showed that his other lower incisor was about to break through – but had settled a little when they'd stopped. He set about charming the staff and other patrons of the diner where they had lunch, then had a brief nap once they found a motel room.

When he woke in the late afternoon, he exercised his newfound mobility, scooting around the room, then under the bed, then behind the sofa, with astonishing agility. Dean scuttled after him, anxiously retrieving his giggling son, while Sam also giggled, and snapped away with his phone. 'Let's Try To Give Daddy A Heart Attack' was clearly RJ's favourite new game.

Having a crawling child who was teething was exhausting; RJ alternated between bouts of grizzles, where only cuddling with Daddy and watching footage of honey badgers while he chomped on something would quiet him, and being a laughing tornado on all fours, wanting to explore, poke, prod and yank at anything he could get to, from trouser legs to electrical cords to curtains to dogs' ears.

"Don't these people ever have kids stay with them?" Dean had wondered despairingly, disengaging RJ from where he was apparently trying to eat the curtain cord. "And where's his 'OFF' switch?"

With the insatiable curiosity of the young exploring the world, RJ had rapidly developed a fascination for getting into bags left within his reach. He managed to extract his own special toy wrench from the bag holding his things – he had a duffel of his own, just like Daddy's – and spent a very happy, very noisy ten minutes banging away at the small metal trash bin with it, jabbering along loudly like the most determined (if somewhat tone deaf) metal drummer.

"Jesus, RJ, give it a rest," Dean wailed, "Who do you think you are, Phil Taylor?"

"Phil Collins," commented Sam, grimacing as he tried (and failed miserably) to ignore the racket while carrying on his pageant research, "He's singing along while he's drumming."

"No kid of mine is going to channel Genesis," Dean grumbled, reaching down to take the offending wrench away. "Come on, time to do something else, little guy..."

The screaming that ensued when RJ's 'drumstick' was taken away had been even louder than the bin whacking.

"Aren't small children supposed to be frightened of loud noises?" asked Dean loudly, holding the crying boy and fruitlessly trying to soothe him, _sans _wrench.

"Not if it's fun, I guess," Sam yelled back.

"This isn't working," humphed Dean, "Here, can you try the honey badgers again..."

"I'm busy," Sam snapped back, "Just give him his wrench."

"But he'll just start whacking the trash can again!"

"You think that's any louder than this? Crap, I can't hear myself think..."

"Come on, Sam," Dean wheedled, "We're talking about priorities here – honey badgers, dude. Right now."

"Just give him the frigging wrench!" countered Sam.

"Sam, as your older brother, I am ordering you to find my child some honey badger footage to look at!" Dean ordered, the imperiousness of the command being lost somewhat due to his having to raise his voice to a shriek to be heard over RJ's howling.

"Oh, is that the time?" asked Sam brightly, "Me-time started ten minutes ago! Gotta go! I noticed on the way here that a local museum is having an exhibition on the biology of the Southwestern Corn Borer, and its economic impact on corn cultivation!"

"Sam..."

"They got a display where you can watch 'em pupating!" Sam said enthusiastically, picking up his bag and his laptop.

"Sam..."

"Gotta go, biology calls!" Sam chirped, "And I don't want to be home late for bath time!"

"Sam!" wailed Dean, almost as loudly as his son, "You can't leave me like this!"

"Splish splash!" said Sam, heading out of the room, and presumably off to learn more about the wonders of the larval stages of _D. grandiosella_.

"Crap," muttered Dean, wincing as RJ bellowed unhappily in his ear. "All right! All right! I get the message! I be dat asshole! Here!" Figuring that if the kid was going to be noisy it was probably better to let him be happily noisy, he gave RJ's wrench back.

RJ stopped howling, cooed happily, and made his 'put me down' noise. Dean obliged, consoling himself with the thought that his son was not quite seven months old, and was bound to tire himself out quickly.

Half an hour later, when RJ finally stopped, Dean had a thumping headache and a desire to poke his own eardrums out with a pointy stick.

RJ crawled back over to where Daddy sat on his bed, searching fruitlessly through his duffel for a pair of earplugs, or at least some Tylenol, looked up with his most adorable expression, and raised his arms to be picked up.

"You are so lucky you're cute," Dean had told his son with a sigh, marvelling once again at how the kid could turn him from homicidal to paternal just by snuggling against him. "Or I might strangle you in your crib. Or at least throw that damned wrench off a very tall bridge."

RJ sucked thoughtfully on his wrench, then held it out for Dean to taste.

"Nah, I'm good," Dean grinned, booping RJ's nose, "I get my heavy metal from the music, okay?"

RJ dropped his wrench, yawned hugely, and snuggled against Dean once more.

"Yeah, I get where you're coming from," nodded Dean, "This whole crawling thing, if it's as tiring for you as it is for me, no wonder you want a nap." He put RJ down on the bed, where the child settled immediately, yawning and dropping off to sleep. "Figures," snorted Dean, picking up the TV remote and turning it on with the volume very low, "You flick your own 'OFF' switch, and I'm not watching to see what you did."

The TV was just white noise, really – he found himself watching his son instead. Watching him breathe, watching him stretch, watching him flap his perfect little hands in his sleep. Lemmy carefully joined them, lying down on the other side of the bed, another set of watchful eyes on the baby, as Lars planted himself watching the door.

Dean smiled at his odd little family, and leaned back against the headboard. His headache was ebbing away, now that the noise had stopped. RJ was the most wonderful thing that had ever happened to him, but fuck, the kid was a handful, leaving his father constantly tired. He wondered briefly if his father had ever held him when he was a baby and had similar thoughts: _I love you absolutely, and would walk through Hell for you, but crap, kid, you are unbelievably exhausting for something so small..._

Not right now, you're not, thought Dean, as RJ wiggled in his sleep. Dreaming about honey badgers, maybe. Honey badgers wearing beanies with Rottweiler ears. Chasing lions away from their wrenches. With Uncle Sammy shrieking in horror, shouting that they shouldn't be chewing on tools unless they'd been boiled for twenty minutes. He chuckled, as his eyes slid shut for a moment.

**...****oooooOOOOOooooo****... ...****oooooOOOOOooooo****... ...****oooooOOOOOooooo****... ...****oooooOOOOOooooo****... ...****oooooOOOOOooooo****... **

RJ stirred, blinked, yawned, and burbled. Lemmy leaned in and licked at his face, nudging him reassuringly. _Your sire is here. Your Pack is here. You are loved, and you are safe._

Waking up, RJ reached out, and gently patted his father's leg. Dean mumbled in his sleep, but didn't wake, so RJ rolled himself over towards Lemmy, and turned around. He crawled back towards Daddy, and patted his leg with an interrogative noise.

Dean let out a snore.

Giggling a little at the funny noise his father made, RJ patted his leg again.

Dean obliged with another snore.

As entertaining as it was, Daddy obviously wasn't going to be of any further amusement value until he woke up, so RJ's attention turned to the ever-fascinating world around him. There was Daddy on one side of him, and Lemmy on the other, keeping him safe, so he couldn't crawl off the sides of the bed. And at the end, Daddy's duffel.

Daddy's open duffel.

With a small hoot of excitement, RJ carefully made his way down the bed, with Lemmy watching closely, and began to investigate Daddy's stuff.

**...****oooooOOOOOooooo****... ...****oooooOOOOOooooo****... ...****oooooOOOOOooooo****... ...****oooooOOOOOooooo****... ...****oooooOOOOOooooo****... **

It was probably the movement of his baby boy that woke Dean – the parent radar thing kicking in – but he didn't realise immediately what RJ was doing.

"Hey, little fella," he slurred with a yawn, "What are you up to?"

The answer he got was a hit between the eyes with a blob of something... gloopy.

"Aaaaaaargh!" he squawked, reaching to wipe at his face and feel for the knife under the pillow at the same time, as his mind raced, trying to think what sort of hideous unnatural abomination could have found its way into the room, and what sort of weapon would kill it...

Which is how it came to pass that, about twenty seconds later, Sam opened the door and began to take pictures of the scene before him: Dean frozen in bug-eyed shock, Lemmy watching on placidly, and RJ alternating between chewing determinedly on and cheerfully waving a bottle of 2-in-1 warming massage lube.

**...****oooooOOOOOooooo****... ...****oooooOOOOOooooo****... ...****oooooOOOOOooooo****... ...****oooooOOOOOooooo****... ...****oooooOOOOOooooo****... **

"What's anybody doing holding a baby contest in Nebraska, anyway?" griped Dean. "It's a state that grows corn, tornadoes, and rednecks. And corn borers, don't forget those fascinating little fuckers," he added tartly.

"At least this isn't much of a detour," Sam reminded him, "And it puts us just a few hours away from Bobby's. Speaking of which, have you called him yet?"

"I will!" snapped Dean, "Stop nagging! You're my brother, not my damned wife!"

"I could call him," suggested Sam innocently, "I could call him, and even send him a photo..."

"Don't you dare!" hissed Dean. "I swear, Francis, that photo ever sees the light of day, and I will end you!"

"Who, calm down, dude," grinned Sam, "That's just one of many, many wonderful photos that will follow, and will one day be treasured, hilarious and touching reminders of the cute little thing that RJ was – you'll thank me when you get older."

"I'll strangle you when I get older," Dean growled.

"Baby-proofing, bro," Sam smiled, "We'll just have to get into the habit. Anyway, you'll have to cheer up, or at least pretend to – RJ won't win anything if Daddy is Mr Grumpy Pants."

"I'm not grumpy!" grumped Dean. RJ babbled and hooted from behind him.

"Yeah, I don't believe him either, RJ," agreed Sam.

"Don't you two dare try to double team me," warned Dean.

"It could've been worse," Sam consoled him, "He could've started eating your rubbers, and then we'd have had to take him to Emergency, and that would've taken some explaining: 'Sir, your son seems to have ingested several prophylactics'. 'Yeah, well, you know what they're like when they're teething, they'll chew on anything'..."

"Shut up," muttered Dean. "So, what's our plan of action, here?"

"It's a walk-up registration," Sam explained, "So, get a form, fill it in, then get in line."

"Is there anything I love as much as standing in line?" sighed Dean, "Except perhaps visiting the dentist. Anyway, are we ready to dazzle the opposition into pale insignificance RJ? Bewilder them with our brilliance?"

"Baffle them with your bullshit, certainly," suggested Sam.

"Bitch."

They pulled into the lot, and made their way to a stage area where a crowd of mothers and young children were congregating. RJ looked around, his eyes wide with curiosity.

"Right now I am distinctly wishing that I was packing silver, consecrated rounds, and lots of holy water," muttered Dean, also looking around.

"We'll need a blade coated with dog's blood to kill a shtriga, bro," Sam reminded him.

"I'm not talking about the damned shtriga!" Dean shot back, "I'm talking about some of these moms! They're scary!"

Sam had to agree: for example, the small toddler in a little leopard print costume, complete with ears and tail, was cute – her mother, a lady who clearly liked her fried food, was not. There were toddlers in wigs, and too much make-up. There were women in wigs, and too much make-up. There were toddlers in age-inappropriate clothing. There were women in age-inappropriate clothing. "Yeah. That woman over there dressed as a stork is totally disturbing. For a start, storks generally have long, thin legs – she's definitely more penguin-shaped... Here, fill out the form," he handed it over, "And it's time to deploy the secret weapons."

"Do we have to?" Dean whined.

"It's for the job, Dean," Sam told him firmly, "You gotta get into character, and dress the part." He took the Rottie-ears beanies from his pocket, and put them on their respective heads. RJ squealed in approval; Dean looked mournful. "Stop that. You look more like a sad Bloodhound than a noble Rottweiler."

"I feel like an idiot," Dean complained. RJ reached out to pat his father's ears. "Well, at least my kid thinks I'm cute."

"Looks like you're the only dad here," Sam offered, looking around, "So given the judging panel," he nodded towards a clutch of women who looked like they'd been purchased from Nineteen-Sixties-Grandmas-R-Us, "That may work in your favour."

"Yeah, yeah." Dean dropped onto an uncomfortable plastic bench to fill in the form. "Name: Robert John (RJ)...hmmmmm... Hammett. Age... Parents' names..." he put down 'mother' as 'Affy' (dec.)', and his own occupation as a mechanic. "Huh? 'Does your child have a talent?'?" he read. "A talent? He's six months old! He eats, he craps, he chews on anything that's not nailed down, what the hell do they expect a six-month-old to be able to do?"

"In the eyes of pageant moms, their kids are overachieving little superstars from the moment they're cleaned up enough to be photographed," Sam rolled his eyes. "I was checking out some of their forms on the way over. They've put down things like 'beautiful smile', 'infectious giggle', 'great cuddler', that sort of thing."

"What a load of crap," scoffed Dean. "Any kid can do that. It's not a talent. I'm leaving that blank."

"He does have a talent, you know," Sam said thoughtfully. "And you want to catch the judges' attention. Gimme that." He took the form, filled in the talent section, and handed it back. "There you go," he smiled.

Dean stared in disbelief. "No," he pleaded, "Sam, no, don't make me do this in public."

"Go on," Sam insisted, "It's amusing, and RJ smiles while he does it! It'll be totally awesome!"

"He's a totally awesome kid anyway!" Dean wailed, "Isn't this stupid hat enough? Is it truly necessary for me to humiliate myself in public like this?"

"Yes," Sam answered shortly. "Don't talk to me about public humiliation. I will never, never recover from the time I had to wear that Sailor Moon outfit..."

"You got the legs for it, dude," Dean smirked.

"And the less said about the RuPaul impersonation contest the better – I nearly broke an ankle in those heels..."

"But you won!" Dean beamed. "You got a tiara!"

"Shut up. So, you will go up on stage, and you will get RJ to do it, and you will not just let him do it, you will smile while he does it, as if you think it's the most amazing thing you've ever seen anybody do."

An indistinct crackle sounded over an elderly PA system. "There's the call for babies up to nine months. Go get in line, bro. I'll get your... prop."

"I hate you," Dean growled. "Come on, then, RJ, time to amaze everyone with our awesomeness," he said, straightening RJ's 'Daddy's Wingman' shirt. "You ready, kiddo?"

RJ bounced up and down in his father's arms, babbling with excitement.

"Okay, let's do this." He plastered a sincere-and-good-natured-yet-slightly-vulnerable smile onto his face, and moved towards the growing line-up. "Let's just hope we don't find out you have an allergy to hairspray, little guy, or we are so screwed."

* * *

Reviews are the Winchester Of Your Choice Assisting You As You Demonstrate Your Own Personal Amazing Talent In The Mall Pageant Of Life! (I shall have them taking turns to hold the cheese platter while I demonstrate my astonishing capacity to consume nearly my own body weight in Camembert within a twenty-four hour period. Nobody can stuff their face with camembert like me. I train on King Island Triple Cream Brie. I shall trounce all-comers. Bring it, bitches.)


	22. Chapter Twenty-Two

**Chapter Twenty-Two**

Sam let himself blend into the crowd that was milling around to watch the contest, scanning the area for anything that might set his Hunter's whiskers twitching. Their shtriga – he was pretty sure it was a shtriga – could be one of the organisers, one of the judges, or someone following the contest for the juicy young pickings.

His eyes strayed back to Dean and RJ. His brother, the Living Sex God undeterred even by the wearing of the dog-ears beanie, was unable to help himself; he was in smiling conversation with another tired-looking parent, a woman whose baby daughter was remarkably sensibly dressed by the standards of some of the other contestants, who were clearly competition regulars (they were easy to spot: their children, and in some cases themselves, were ornately costumed, and glaring daggers at Dean, presumably spotting a credible threat). The little girl reached out to towards RJ's Rottie ears, and he saw his nephew break into a beaming smile of invitation. _Yep,_ he thought, _That's definitely Dean's kid._

One of the women whom he'd identified as Grandmas From The Sixties earlier moved to a microphone on the stage, and cleared her throat.

"Good morning shoppers!" she started brightly, "I am Mrs Bedelia Shovepenny, talent scout for Bonny Babies, and it is my pleasure to welcome you to our talent search here today!"

There was a ragged smattering of applause, then she introduced her fellow judges, a couple of local grandmothers, supplied by a local branch of Grandmas-R-Us from the look of them, and...

"...and one of our most experienced photographers, Arjan Hamespurt, who will be doing the folio work for our winners!"

A darkly handsome middle-aged man, with hair longer than Sam's and a luxuriant beard, and an engaging smile (that unfortunately became somewhat startling as it increased in intensity due to his unfortunately prominent teeth) stood, and bowed to the audience, then resumed his seat, and returned to chatting amiably with the other judges.

The host went on through the other prizes that were up for grabs, baby food and other kiddy stuff, then announced, "Well, it looks like we have a considerable pool of talent to get through, so, let's start with the Babies To Nine Months group, and meet our first contestant!"

Sam didn't see the appeal, himself: a succession of mothers introduced themselves and their babies, and answered a few questions, before the judges got to meet the baby. Some of them laughed. Some burst into tears. Some hid their faces against their mothers and whimpered. A couple threw up. One audibly sharted. Inevitably, when introduced to the photographer and his dramatic dentition, they screamed. And there was an adoring crowd gathered to watch every tear-stained, puke-smeared, gaudily-costumed, ear-splitting moment.

While the audience beamed and clapped, he turned back to scan the other mothers impatiently waiting their turns. As each child was presented, they stared hard, with smiles that were more like a baring of teeth, as if willing each rival to burst into flames (or at least into a totally non-photogenic tantrum) on the spot. If he listened carefully, he thought he might hear the air sizzle.

A just-audible susurrus of ill-wishing muttering went up as the applause for another child, bright red and still screaming about the photographer's teeth, died away, and the host announced,

"Next up we have a dad come out today, with his little boy! Come on up, Dean Hammett, and tell us who's with you today!"

Dean's act was impeccable: the squaring of the shoulders, the determined exhalation as he started up the stairs, the hesitant-and-vulnerable-yet-game expression, and his firm, fatherly hold on RJ. He offered the host and judges a throttled back version of the Killer Smile, and let his Kansas origin leak subtly but definitely into his voice.

"Uh, hey there," he began uncertainly. "This is my boy, Robert John, RJ." RJ looked around with wide eyes and a wondering smile.

"Hello there RJ!" beamed Mrs Shovepenny, holding out a hand. RJ reached for it, and giggled engagingly. "So, you're not here with Mom, today? Is she in the audience?"

"Mommy's not with us anymore," Dean smiled a sadly brave yet beautiful smile, "There was, uh, there was an accident..."

Sam stifled a snort; yes, Dean was a single father because of an accident. An accident that was due to, Dean claimed, an astonishingly evocative tapestry rather than a crashing car, but technically he was correct...

An audible 'Oh' rippled through the shopping crowd.

"But we do just fine," Dean stated with more confidence, "I got my boy here to keep an eye on me, and we know she's watchin' us, aint she?" RJ cooed in smiling agreement. An 'Awwwwww' went through the audience.

"Well, I was going to ask, did Mommy knit your hats?" she asked RJ gently.

"Oh, Auntie Samantha knitted these for us," Dean answered cheerfully.

"What a wonderful job she did!" said the host, "Is Auntie Samantha in the audience today?"

"Oh, no," Dean shook his head, "Auntie Sam couldn't be here today – she's having her hair done. And she doesn't like to come out in public with the curlers in."

_I will kill him_, thought Sam.

"So, Dean, do you think RJ has what it takes to be a Bonny Baby?"

"Well, uh," Dean looked momentarily perplexed, "Everybody is always sayin' what a cute little guy he is, so when I saw the flyer, I thought, well, why not give it a shot? We might even win some food, and stuff! It would be... it would help... money's been tight since... I've had time off work, to look after my boy... "

With perfect timing, RJ reached out to pat Dean's cheek gently, and make a soothing cooing noise. Dean's eyes glittered with unshed tears for a moment, then he smiled beautifully at his son.

"So, then... oh, looks like somebody wants to ask me a question!" trilled the host as RJ reached for her glasses, which were around her neck on a lanyard, and made his questioning noise.

"Oh, he's at that age, you know, where he just wants to check out everything," Dean smiled with a quick sniff. "Nothing is safe now he's crawling. Even the dogs have learned to go to sleep sitting on their ears and tails!" That drew a laugh. She obligingly put her glasses on; RJ hooted enthusiastically, and bounced up and down, clapping. "Well, they do say that men make passes at ladies in glasses," Dean shrugged, making the audience laugh once more.

"Watch out girls, we got ourselves a lady-killer here!" trilled Mrs Shovepenny, as the other judges beamed indulgently.

Sam watched as RJ worked the judges, and the crowd, like a seasoned pro. He gurgled, he burbled, he giggled, he grabbed, he hid his face against Dean's chest and then peeked back shyly, engagingly, and extremely photogenically. He even drew a smile from the Grandmas-R-Us model that Sam had privately decided was a recycled Army Sergeant, patting at her iron grey bun and going 'Oooooooh!' in an impressed way. When she asked him, "So, do you eat up all your mashed vegetables, young man?", with perfect timing, he pouted and blew an extravagant raspberry.

The audience loved it.

The photographer was the final judge, and as the host introduced him, Sam's eyes widened in alarm. He saw Dean notice it too, and stiffen. RJ's eyes went wide, and he drew breath in what was clearly recognisable as a prelude to a very long, very loud scream...

Of laughter.

Sam did a double-take. RJ hid is face against Dean, then turned back again, only to shriek with laughter once more.

One more repeat of the peek-a-boo act, and the audience were all laughing along with him.

The photographer Arjan, for his part, took it with good humour. It was definitely an improvement on the children who met him and screamed in horror. "I waste my life as photographer," he shrugged, "I should be comedian, perhaps."

"You gonna let the rest of us in on the joke?" Dean asked his son. RJ just peered at Arjan again, and howled with hilarity once more. "Uh, it could be the beard," he suggested apologetically to the judges, "He isn't familiar with 'em."

"Well, he's definitely a happy little fellow," commented Mrs Shovepenny, "Now, I see on the form here, that your son has a very particular talent. It says here, 'takes a keen interest in supervising Daddy's personal grooming'. Would you like to demonstrate that for us?"

"Oh, he'd love to," Dean smiled a conspiratorial smile that only Sam could recognise as completely fake. "He just needs his stuff here… hey, RJ, what's this, huh? Can you help Daddy? Can you make Daddy handsome?"

RJ let out a happy burble, plunged both hands into the cup of milk froth, and enthusiastically began to pat a fluffy beard onto his father's chin.

The audience laughed like loons as the baby's face crinkled into an adorable picture of concentration, and he hummed to himself as if in deep thought.

"How do I look?" Dean turned his most beautiful smile to the crowd, and received several whoops and catcalls. RJ paused, and appeared to consider his work critically, then made a careful addition. "Oh, hey, yeah, sideburns, huh? Just like Auntie Samantha's…"

The audience howled with hilarity.

_Seriously, I will kill him_, Sam tried to keep the fratricidal scowl off his face as his eyes moved over the other contestants' mothers. He saw brittle scowl-smiles, grimaces and pouts that would've been at home on the faces of spoiled children, but there was nothing that set off his fugly radar.

"Ladies and gentlemen, RJ Hammett!" laughed the host. RJ beamed, and clapped with the audience, as Dean raised his paper cup in salute, then left the stage. As he descended the stairs, he saved his most beaming and irritating smile for the cluster of pageant moms.

_Or maybe they'll kill him first_, mused Sam, watching them all but hiss at his big brother.

Sam drifted casually over to where Dean sat down with RJ. His brother was wiping at his chin with a paper napkin. "Don't just stand there, Auntie Samantha," he demanded, "Get me the wipes out of the bag."

"Auntie Samantha?" queried Sam, fishing for the required packet.

"Just part of the act, Sammy," Dean grinned at him, "Just part of the act. Anyway, you'd make a great auntie. I can see you twenty years from now, by the fire, your hair in curlers, knitting, and saying to kids, 'When I was your age, we didn't dress like that, we stayed decently covered at all times, even when we were having sex, in my case, especially when I was having sex, and we turned the lights off and we did NOT talk about it'…"

"Jerk," muttered Sam. "So, I'm not getting any fugly vibes from the audience or the contestants' moms yet. Although," he qualified, "If looks could kill, you'd be nothing but a greasy spot on the floor by now."

"Jealousy is a curse," Dean sniffed disdainfully, "And they know competition when they see it. I forget how many times I've had this type of problem before. At school it was footballers, then later it was guys in bars, but I deal with it and don't let it get to me…"

"Dean," Sam interrupted, "Your way of 'dealing with it' has usually involved beating the shit out of some guy who got pissed, then took a swing at you, when his girlfriend looked you over."

"They always started it," Dean defended himself like an aggrieved six year old.

"Jesus, Dean, how old are you?"

"Well, if a guy is that insecure about her looking at me, she's not much of a girlfriend," Dean waved a hand dismissively, "So technically, in that situation, I'd be doing a guy a favour by giving her an opportunity to ditch him. And at school, I was doing the coach a favour – any guy who's that easy to beat up can't be much of a football player. Seriously, the ones who were terrified to get hit in the face, they practically fell over to avoid me."

"The point I'm trying to make, here," Sam pressed on, giving Dean a smart Bitchface #8™ (You Are Now Officially Talking Complete Shit, Dean), "Is that I don't think our shtriga is in the audience. You did great, RJ," he addressed his nephew, "The sideburns were inspired. I thought he was going to scream at Mr Photographer's teeth, though."

"I thought_ I_ was going to scream," confessed Dean. "They're even bigger up close. I wonder if he's related to Gary Busey? Amy Winehouse? The Osmond family? Mr Ed?"

"It's not an anglo-sounding name," commented Sam, "But I guess we can thank Andrew and his Amazing Amusing Werewolf Teeth for teaching RJ to laugh at what made the other babies scream." He looked up at the stage to where another baby let out a wail of discombobulation at being greeted by the photographer. "I may not be completely objective here, but I think you might have it in the bag." He couldn't resist jerking a thumb at the scowling pageant moms. "And so do they."

There were several more entrants before the judges conferred briefly, and Mrs Shovepenny took the stage to make her announcement.

"Well, ladies and gentlemen," she began, "The judges have made their decision, and it is my great pleasure to announce our winners for our Babies To Nine Months group…"

Third place went to a woman who had dressed herself and her baby as flowers (although the kid had mostly slept through the proceedings, except to wake briefly to scream at Mr Teeth). Second place went to the little girl who had taken an interest in the ears on RJ's beanie.

"And in first place, our Bonny Baby to nine months, is… RJ Hammett!"

Dean convincingly gasped in shock, cuddled RJ close, and made his way up the stairs, where he let his eyes shine with unshed tears and beamed happily at his son. RJ was given a sash, which he proceeded to chew on, and got a rousing round of applause from the audience.

"Uh, thank you," Dean stammered, "This is… wow, I mean, this is… thank you so much, I just wish his mom was here to see this…"

_Lay it on any thicker and you'll need a trowel,_ thought Sam.

A gopher with a clipboard took Dean aside to get more details as judging for the next group of children started. This group, up to eighteen months, had the added element of entertainment in that toddlers could not just scream, but attempt to run away from Mr Hamespurt.

"So, we got an appointment with Mr Teeth," Dean informed him when he'd been adequately documented, "And they know where we're staying."

"Not visiting with Auntie Samantha, then?" Sam enquired a little tartly.

"Hell no," Dean grinned, "She's fussy, she's prissy, and she puts doilies on everything. And seeing her in her curlers first thing in the morning, it's even scarier than the photographer."

"Jerk," muttered Sam. "So, you wanna hang around and watch the other groups? Next one should be fun – up to three years, so they'll be able to shriek ' Don't let him eat me!' as well as try to run away."

"Nah," Dean drawled, jiggling RJ as the boy began to make the strident grizzle that they'd learned meant 'I'm hungry', "Champ here needs his liquid refreshment, isn't that right, Tiger? I vote for celebrating his awesomeness with a bacon cheeseburger. And pie. All that being head-explodingly cute takes it out of a guy. I'm speaking from experience here…"

"I'd like to do some background checking on Mr Teeth, and Grandmas-R-Us," nodded Sam.

"Hey, live a little, Auntie Samantha," Dean suggested expansively, "You can spare some time to celebrate with us. We'll get you, we'll get you, a tomato! And a carrot! And as much lettuce as you can bitchface at!"

"Dean…"

"We'll even find a place that has doilies!"

"Dean…"

"You wanna stop somewhere and get your hair done first?"

"I hate you."

* * *

I wonder, will the shtriga come straight after RJ, or will he go to his photo shoot first? Whaddyareckon? This story is a long 'un already, although I think Nathaniel can see an ending in sight. And they haven't even told Bobby yet...

Onward to matters of nomenclature:

*gets onto soapbox*

Justice? Justice? They named the kid JUSTICE? It wasn't some sort of typo for 'Justine', it is, in fact, Justice? Justice Jay? Aka, 'JJ'? (I'm going to think of Spiderman's boss, now.) Clearly, I am now officially a conservative, middle-aged old fuddy-duddy. Well, at least they didn't name her after fruit, or a day of the week. Or a poodle. Or a piece of bedding. Or a scatological party trick. (Really, Mr Edge? What sort of a sadistic bastard names his child Blue Angel?) It will l serve them right if she gets to eighteen, and changes her name to Agnes Muriel. I suppose that, as the reluctant custodian of a plot bunny named Nathaniel, I shouldn't talk.

Reviews are the Interesting Name You'd Rather Have Written In On The Birth Certificate Of Life! (From now on, I would like you all to address me as Bavmorda Wolfe Christabel. Bavs to my friends.)


	23. Chapter Twenty-Three

_It is with a certain sense of resignation that we acknowledge that, once more, one of The Denizens has doomed herself to eternal damnation, with the following comment, and I quote:_

**architaannie:** I just hope that when Jensen serves her dinner at least he says 'Justice is served' or he is missing a serious joke opportunity...

_Yep, she's going to Special Pun Hell for that one._

* * *

**Chapter Twenty-Three**

"I'd be happier if I went along with you," griped Sam unhappily, "Or at least if you took one of the dogs with you." As if to agree with Sam, Lemmy let out an unhappy whine.

"We want this thing to think that it's just me and RJ," Dean said firmly, "Just two guys, who happen to be devastatingly handsome, batching it together in a motel room for a few days, after we visited Auntie Samantha."

"You loaded with consecrated iron?" Sam demanded.

"Yes, Mom," Dean rolled his eyes. "Plus, I got a clean handkerchief, and a quarter for a phone call, and I'm wearing my decent shorts in case I get hit by a bus and taken to hospital. Oh, yeah, and a silvered knife, in case I'm attacked by the photographer; teeth like that, guy's clearly a werebeaver, or something."

"Look, just... be careful, okay?" Sam gave up in the face of his big brother's bottomless bravado. "It's unlikely to attack during the day – these things feed at night – but there's no sense taking chances. And you do know there's no such thing as a werebeaver, right?"

"Just because you've never seen one don't mean they aint real," Dean informed his brother loftily.

"I'm pretty sure that if they existed, somebody woulda Hunted one down by now, and told somebody else."

"Maybe they did, but then the first person they told laughed at them so hard that they never mentioned it again," theorised Dean. "After all, if there can be a wererabbit, there could be a werebeaver, right?"

"Wererabbit?" Sam looked completely mystified.

"You know, knights, coconut horses, Holy Hand Grenade of Antioch," Dean mimed whacking two halves of a coconut shell together. "Sparrows carrying the coconuts."

"That was the rabbit of Caerbannog," growled Sam, with the pained expression of Pythonphiles everywhere who are compelled to correct the ignorant when they get the most minute detail incorrect, "And it was swallows. Plus, hello, 'Monty Python and the Holy Grail' is not real!"

"Yeah? I thought they were doing an English history re-enactment."

"Oh, God, look, we've been through this before, okay? Reality – and not reality. There's porn, then reality. Monty Python, then reality. Killer rabbits, then reality..."

"Heh heh, 'With pointy teeth!'. And of course, a beaver has even bigger teeth than a rabbit."

"Dean, nowhere in the history of Hunting lore has there ever been a report of an attack by something that could be a werebeaver!"

"Yeah? Has anybody gone out to ask the trees, huh?"

"You are so full of it..."

"As Carl used to say, 'Absence of evidence is not evidence of absence'," Dean intoned seriously.

Sam glared at him sourly. "I'm not sure what's weirder, the idea of a werebeaver, or the idea that you actually ever paid attention to an episode of 'Cosmos'."

"Don't worry, Sammy," Dean grinned as he picked up RJ to head off to their photographic appointment, "We'll be fine. Although, maybe we should try to stock a couple of grenades. You know, just in case. Of wererabbits."

"Sure, bro," sighed Sam, knowing when to cut his losses. "Maybe Bobby can put you touch with a supplier. Have you called him to tell him about RJ yet?"

"I will, okay? Hey, I bet grenades would work on werebeavers too."

"Yeah, probably."

"Actually, I bet grenades would work on just about anything..."

"Yep, if it's not dead yet, just add more HE," sighed Sam in defeat. "Totally. Plus, grenades are so subtle, the general public will never ever know we're using 'em. Go on then, go get RJ photographed. So long as you keep an ear out for the warning howl of the rampaging werebeaver, I'm sure you'll be safe."

"I hooked up with this girl once, her beaver was, well, it might not have been a werebeaver, but it was definitely feral..."

"Dean, if the next sentence out of your mouth mentions your silver ring, I will say 'Ni!' at you with extreme prejudice."

"Hey Sam."

"What?"

"How fast can a sparrow fly carrying a coconut?"

"It was a swallow!"

"She turned me into a frog!"

"A newt, she turned him into a newt!"

"And after the spanking..."

"Oh, God, I hate you."

**...****oooooOOOOOooooo****... ...****oooooOOOOOooooo****... ...****oooooOOOOOooooo****... ...****oooooOOOOOooooo****... ...****oooooOOOOOooooo****... **

At the Bonny Babies studio, the slightly-harassed-looking admin woman who'd taken his details the previous day looked up and smiled.

"Hi there, Mr Hammett," she began, "Dean, wasn't it? Hey RJ!"

"Hiya, Karen," he smiled back, "So, uh, what happens now?"

"Mrs Shovepenny will be ready for you soon," Karen assured him.

"I thought she was the boss," Dean asked, "Isn't she in an office somewhere, telling minions what to do?"

"Oh, no," Karen told him, "Mrs Shovepenny is a very hands-on person; she's the creative director – she does most of the sets, and a lot of the costumes."

"Nothing wrong with a woman being hands-on," The Living Sex God smirked, unable to help himself as he surreptitiously checked out her entirely presentable rack.

Karen laughed, and leaned forward. "I think so too," she confided with an arched eyebrow.

RJ contributed his own opinion on the topic by shrieking happily, and reaching out to grab at her chest.

"Oh, God," Dean moaned, "I'm sorry about that..."

"Huh," Karen sniffed in mock dudgeon, "I thought you might be jealous."

Dean thoroughly enjoyed flirting with her until Mrs Bedelia Shovepenny, Cat. No. 47289S ('Mrs Doubtfire' model, with 'Twin Set and Pearls' accessories) from Grandmas-R-Us made her appearance.

"Oh, Mr Hammett!" she enthused, "Good morning! And good morning to you too, RJ."

RJ gurgled and waved engagingly.

"Hey there, Mrs Shovepenny," Dean smiled back.

"Oh, Bedelia, please," she smiled. "Mrs Shovepenny sounds so stuffy. Just imagine it, I've been sounding stuffy since I was in my twenties!" She leaned in conspiratorially. "I used to tell people, I'll marry the first man who asks me, because I was so desperate to get rid of my maiden name, which was Passwater!"

"Oh, uh," stuttered Dean, "Yeah, I could see that would be an improvement." Behind the desk, he saw Karen facepalm discreetly.

After instructing Karen that she was not to be disturbed whilst working, Bedelia Shovepenny led Dean past a wall that displayed several poster-sized photos of children ranging in age from a baby in a caterpillar costume to a grade schooler as a butterfly (the patterns on the wings looked uncannily like eyes, and he was convinced that they followed him along the short hallway).

"So, how long have you been, you know, doing Bonny Babies?" he asked.

"For many years now," Bedelia told him. "Mr Shovepenny lost his job in a brokerage firm, but had a keen amateur interest in portrait photography long before that; there was clearly a market, so we started in our back room, and built up the business from there." She indicated a photo that had clearly been taken a number of decades earlier, when styling a toddler's hair like that was not deemed a form of child abuse.

"Oh, I thought Mr Hamespurt was your photographer," Dean said in a confused voice.

"I've had a number of photographers work with me, since Mr Shovepenny passed on," she smiled. "Mr Hamespurt was such a find! I joke about him being my late Easter present this year! He has a real eye for composition."

If the photographer had been female, Dean probably would have asked 'So, did she arrived covered in chocolate?', but he settled for following Bedelia through to the studio.

"Now then," she told him, "Mr Hamespurt is just setting up – he's terribly particular with his equipment, the temperamental artistic type, I'm afraid, but he does such wonderful work, he's definitely worth a bit of fussing."

"So, Karen says you, uh, supervise all the photo shoots, Mrs Sho- uh, Bedelia." mentioned Dean.

"Oh, yes!' she enthused. "I am the creative director, which is a glamorous way of saying, I'm the wardrobe mom! The costume designs are largely mine, but as I said, Arjan has a talent for setting up a shot, so I always listen to what he has to suggest."

The studio looked much like any other Dean had ever seen: backdrop screens, lighting screens, and a couple of top-of-the-range cameras on tripods. Mr Teeth was muttering to himself as he waved a light meter and peered at one of his cameras. When he saw Dean and RJ, be burst into one of his unfortunate smiles.

"Ah, Mr Dean and Master RJ!" he called, "I hope young man is not frightened by flash, no?"

"Uh, I dunno, really," shrugged Dean, "We've never been in a proper studio before, with lights an' all."

"Have to check timings, so can check boy at same time," suggested the photographer, taking hold of the flash override toggle, "Not afraid, RJ? Three, two, one..."

The flash discharged with a hot, audible 'boomp'.

RJ looked around in astonishment, then clapped his hands as if he'd just seen some spectacular fireworks.

Arjan shrugged. "Well, not frightened of me, so, flash, no problem," he decided philosophically. RJ giggled, and reached out to pat at his beard.

"Oh, God, I'm so sorry," Dean pulled RJ's hand away. "He's a bit handsy today."

Arjan rolled his eyes. "Hello, child photographing? Every day, I have worse. This one? Happy little angel." RJ cooed as Arjan smiled at him. "Now, let us look..." he cocked his head and stared critically at RJ. "Very handsome boy. Coloring like his father. Green eyes. Freckles is good." He smiled a little sadly. "_Nene_ was beautiful woman, yes? Mother?"

"Very beautiful," agreed Dean.

Bedelia reappeared with a box containing a selection of props and pieces of clothing, and began to sort through them. "Now, if you're at all interested in putting together a modelling folio, what businesses are looking for is a child who can light up a piece of apparel, or a costume, or an item..."

She pulled out several things, some of which Arjan vetoed incomprehensively in his native language. RJ tired of the discussions, pouted, and batted at his father's jacket until Dean pulled out his toy to distract him.

"I think he'd look wonderful in... what have you got there, RJ?" asked Bedelia.

"Oh, that's his, uh, his wrench," Dean explained sheepishly. RJ helpfully held the tool out for inspection, then put it back in his mouth. "It's his. It's his favourite toy."

Bedelia smiled widely. "Mr Hammett, I think we have the perfect prop!"

**...****oooooOOOOOooooo****... ...****oooooOOOOOooooo****... ...****oooooOOOOOooooo****... ...****oooooOOOOOooooo****... ...****oooooOOOOOooooo****... **

Sam was reading on the laptop when he heard the Impala pull up outside their room. RJ was asleep in his father's arms, and Dean looked exhausted.

"I now know," Dean muttered as Sam let him in, "Why supermodels supposedly don't get out of bed for less than ten grand a day. I'm totally beat!"

"So's RJ," grinned Sam, as Dean carefully put the boy down in his crib to keep napping. "Good work! While he's asleep, he won't be crawling around and getting into things he shouldn't. So, how did the world's next male supermodel do?"

"He was great," Dean shrugged, "Seriously, he played the part like a pro. He laughed, he pouted, he did puppy-dog eyes that make you look like an amateur. Hell, he made Heckle and Jeckle here," he indicated the dogs, who had laid down next to RJ's crib, "And their 'Please-Give-Me-Bacon' faces look like Hellhounds. Mr Teeth gave me a draft print of this one to show you." Dean handed over a mid-quality print of RJ, sitting in a toy Mustang, beaming hugely as he waved his spanner.

"Cute," Sam commented. "Brain-implodingly cute, in fact. So, while the camera was loving RJ, what did you do?"

"Oh, I just, you know, stood around looking awesome, and encouraging RJ to look awesome, while keeping my eyes open," Dean shrugged casually, and – Sam thought – just a little evasively. "I aint a pushy stage parent. Didn't see anything out of the ordinary, nothing set off the fugly detector."

"I've been doing a little more digging on Bonny Babies," Sam told him, heading back to the laptop on the rickety table. "There's nothing particularly suspicious about a moving photography business: in this age of digital imaging, it lets the business develop a larger clientele base, and they can run the business online. I've tracked unexplained onset of serious illness in young kids, coincident with their pageants, back to May. Which just happens to be around the time this photographer, Hamespurt, started work for Bonny Babies."

"Mrs Shovepenny did say that he was her 'late Easter present'," nodded Dean. "She's very impressed with his work. His gear is top-end, too, and he knows what he's doing."

And get this," Sam tapped at the laptop, "Mr Teeth's name? Arjan? It's Albanian. Where the legend of the shtriga originates."

"He used a word," Dean paused in thought, "Talking to RJ. He said... he asked if 'Nene was a beautiful woman'. Referring to RJ's Mom."

Sam spent a couple of minutes searching phonetic variants. "It's an Albanian word," he confirmed, "For mommy, or mama. What a young child would call his mother." He opened another document. "If he's Albanian, then his surname, 'Hamespurt', isn't immediately of East European origin, although anglicized spellings of names that sound too 'foreign' when people migrate to the US are still quite common. But I did mess around with a couple of translation engines – it could quite possibly be a corruption of _hamës i shpirt_; literally, 'glutton of souls'. It could be drawing a pretty long bow. Or if a member of his family was once suspected of being a shtriga, the whole family could've been tainted by the accusation, and the name stuck."

"Or it could be thumbing his nose at everybody for the fun of it," Dean smiled mirthlessly. "Would it suggest anything further to you to know that he asked if me and RJ would be here tonight, because he'd like to drop off a sheet of proofs for me to look at?"

"What did you tell him?" asked Sam.

"I told him we'd be having an early night tonight, because we'll probably have to head off tomorrow," Dean replied grimly, "And RJ was clearly tired, and I was beat, too. I told him that if he arrived tonight and I didn't answer the door immediately, he should bang on the door and yell, because I sleep like a baby."

"Technically you do," Sam pointed out, "You drink until you fall asleep, then a couple of hours later you're awake again, wanting to take a piss and yelling for another bottle..."

Dean just beamed angelically.

"So, you've thrown a big bucket of chum in the water," huffed Sam.

"All we gotta do now is wait to reel it in," Dean smiled a predatory smile, "And gank it."

"We'll have to leave the door and windows unsalted," Sam said unhappily, "We can't tip this thing off that we're Hunters, or it'll just run, and we won't get another chance." He glanced worriedly over at RJ, who stirred in his sleep.

Dean followed his line of sight, and smiled. "He'll be fine, Sam," he reassured his brother, "We won't let that thing touch him. I promise." RJ snuffled, and wiggled, yawning. "Uh-oh, speak of the devil, and he shall awake. I guess somebody's getting hungry." He leaned into the crib to pick up RJ, who blinked sleepily, rubbed at his eyes, sharted with astonishing volume and for a truly impressive time span, smiled hugely at Dean and made his 'feed me' noise. Dean sighed, and headed for the diaper bag.

"I'll make up his bottle," Sam grinned, "He really is so like you it's not funny."

"At least I'm house-trained," muttered Dean. "Oh, little dude, come Summer, I'm gonna take you outside and hose you down."

"You can't just hose a kid down!" protested Sam.

"Why not? I did it with you."

"Huh?"

"Well, what with your preference for nuding up and running around Bobby's yard bare-assed, when Dad left us there one Summer, you were going through so many diapers, and we were running low and I didn't want to bother Bobby, so, I let you run free, and every so often, I just hosed you down."

"Dean, you can't just hose down a toddler like he's some sort of sweaty racehorse! What did Bobby say when he caught you doing that?"

"He warned me not to let you get sunburn, then got me a towel. And he took pictures. Haven't seen them for years, though."

"He _what_?"

"You were a really cute kid, Sam. Hey, maybe when we get to his place, we should dig them out, and send them to Bonny Babies, asking if anybody wants to use them, maybe to advertise rabbit food, or Sasquatch traps, or baby shampoo, or something..."

"Jerk."

* * *

Incidentally, if you haven't gone back and checked out the Special Bonus Feature Deleted Scene that I FINALLY got around to adding to finish off 'In A Flap', do check it out. The DDD&SSS fire up HELL-TV again…

Also, I found a perfect illustration for 'PLEEEEEEASE Can We Keep Him?' and the link is given in a second appended chapter. Be careful that your head doesn't asplode, Fluffy is that cute (although the lady who drew the pic said that in her head canon, Dean called him 'Steve' because he had a mouth like Steve Tyler).

Meanwhile, I think Nathaniel has the finish line in sight! It's been a marathon, so I hope he'll find some high-carb carrots and plot-bunny snacks. Reviews are the Winchester Of Your Choice Knocking On Your Castle Door In The Monty Python Script Of Life!


	24. Chapter Twenty-Four

Nyx Ro has pointed out that it would be unusual for RJ to have Dean's freckles so overtly at such a young age, without them possibly indicating an underlying problem. In the Jimiverse, I suppose we'll just have to put it down to him getting out in the sunshine a lot while he was still living with his mother. Or it's because of quantum. The Jimiverse – who knew it could be so educational? The Denizens, they are a bunch with teh smarticles. What can you tell us that will amaze and edify us all? Here's my imparted info: The Great Wall of China is NOT visible from the moon, getting wet and cold will not cause you to catch influenza, and in _Casablanca_, Humphrey Bogart never said 'Play it again, Sam'.

* * *

**Chapter Twenty-Four**

Sam sat, still but edgy, in the darkened bathroom – it was pretty dingy to begin with, especially with the light out, even with the door open to let in the ambient light leaking into their room through the thin curtains. He listened to the sounds of the night; Dean was feigning sleep, letting out the occasional snuffling snore in an act that had been able to fool their Dad, but couldn't fool Sam.

_Let's just hope it fools this damned shtriga_, he thought unhappily. Dean had always been cavalier about trawling himself as bait for fuglies, and Sam had always hated it, but now he was acutely aware that there was another Winchester, a very young Winchester, and he was a bit surprised at the strength of his visceral worry about RJ's safety.

"It may be your job sometime," Ronnie had told him frankly, out of Dean's hearing, "It's how a pack works. If threatened, their dam is the last line of defence guarding the pups – the others go out to drive off or kill whatever's threatening them. If the shit ever hits the fan, let Dean be the bitch. Ignore that he-man-big-brother-get-behind-me-Sammy crap, you put the dogs, then yourself, between him and his boy, and you fucking stop whatever it is."

He checked his gun again; he and Dean were loaded with consecrated iron, and carrying steel blades that had been Christmas gifts from their big sister Felicity. ("They've been consecrated by an archbishop. And also by the opposition – we got a Lutheran minister on our trivia team. 'God's Odd-bods'. We totally slaughter the opposition. Oh yeah, they've been ritually purified by a rabbi. And blessed by an imam. And this granthi I know read a couple of pertinent _gurbani_ over them. And Eichi from the Shinto temple prayed over them for me, although he's not technically 'ordained', yet. What? Of course I'm serious! Huh, if you don't believe me, you gotta come along to one of our trivia nights, they're epic. Actually, Sam, we'd be pleased to have you join us some time; I guess we could tell everybody you're an Odinist, or something."). But the thought that something might come after his nephew, and they were deliberately letting it in...

He could only imagine what was going through Dean's head. Thoughts of killing without hesitation, most probably. He should calm the fuck down, he told himself with a small smile. If necessary, Dean would tear its head off with his bare hands before he let anything get near RJ.

His eyes turned back to the monitor of the second laptop. The other one was discreetly set up to give him a webcam view of Dean's bed and RJ's crib, where the barely moving blanket indicated a small, sleeping presence. It could be killed with consecrated iron rounds while it was feeding, he knew, they'd learned that from their Dad's journal so many years ago. He hated to think how many kids had been preyed on before some Hunter had found something that worked. Even more than that, he hated to think about that _thing _getting that close to his nephew...

A barely-audible swish of the curtain brought his attention back to the room. Just when he thought he'd imagined it, he heard the unmistakeable sound of somebody very carefully testing the door, and finding it open, make its way silently into the room.

Sam suppressed a shudder of revulsion. The figure was hunched, hooded, and conveyed a sense of looking old in a way that was difficult to articulate. It moved fluidly, as if rolling on casters, gliding across black ice, or drifting on unseen currents of air. It paused, taking in the sleeping man and the crib before it, as if scenting the breeze...

Then it made a fluid casting motion with one hand, and a spray of barely-visible shimmer blossomed in the air over Dean's bed, drifting to settle in him.

As the shtriga stood motionless, watching the results of whatever it had done, Sam realised with horror that his big brother was now, really, genuinely asleep.

Soundlessly, he levered himself up from the edge of the tub where he'd been perched, gun in hand, eyes on the monitor. He had to get this right, he had to get this exactly right, he had to kill this thing before it could do any real damage...

Satisfied that Dean was no threat, the thing drifted fluidly towards the crib, long spindly hands reaching out inexorably in anticipation of feeding. The webcam caught the eerie glow in the creature's face as it prepared to attack another young, tender victim.

It bent over the crib. The bony spider-hands peeled back the blanket.

Lemmy popped out from underneath, eyes glowing furnace-red, and sank his teeth into its arm.

**...****oooooOOOOOooooo****... ...****oooooOOOOOooooo****... ...****oooooOOOOOooooo****... ...****oooooOOOOOooooo****... ...****oooooOOOOOooooo****... **

Sam didn't understand how the damned thing could keep up such an unearthly howling as it reverted back to its human guise, but that was a thought that was firmly pushed aside by the immediate business of bursting out of the bathroom and drawing a bead on it. However, given that it was being chomped by a three-quarters Hellhound shaped like a Rottweiler, even if Lemmy hadn't cut his true Hellhound knife-teeth yet, it had to sting a bit.

"Back off, you fucking... huh?" his jaw dropped involuntarily as the witch-fiend turned to face him.

"Call off your dog!" hissed Mrs Shovepenny, her face twisted into a rictus of pain and anger.

"Fuck that," muttered Sam, putting a double-tap into the centre of her mass.

He blinked as she looked down in annoyance, then laughed at him.

"Consecrated iron?" she laughed savagely, "Really? That will only kill me if I'm feeding, idiot! Where is he? Where is the child?" Her nostrils flared as if she were casting for a scent.

"You won't be getting near him!" snapped Sam, drawing his knife.

Bedelia Shovepenny's lips twisted into a cruel smirk. "Call off your dog," she repeated, grimacing as Lemmy redoubled his efforts, "Or your brother will never wake up again!"

Sam threw a frantic glance at his big brother – Dean was out for the count. Not just sound asleep, but smiling beautifully, and starting to mutter sweet nothings to his pillow.

"What did you do?" Sam demanded.

"Just taking precautions, honey," she trilled at him sweetly, "Because I don't like to be interrupted. Now, why don't you call this mutt off, and I'll walk away. It's the best offer I'm going to make."

"No," Sam shook his head, "No, all those kids..."

"You've lost this time, sweetie," she purred, "We both have. It happens. Just accept it, like I have. Just call off the dog, and I'll walk away."

Sam's mind was racing as he tried to work out what to do, when suddenly he heard a loud, yodelling scream of outrage.

"Yaaaaaa AAAAAAAAAAA **AAAAAAAAA **_**AAAAAAAAARGH!**_"

As he watched in astonishment, Arjan the photographer burst through the door, brandishing one of his tripods. Without slowing down, he barrelled into Mrs Shovepenny with it, pinning her to the wall. She let out another unearthly shriek of rage.

"Shtriga! Shtriga!" he shrieked, leaning into the tripod. "She is witch! Child-killer!" He reached behind himself, and tossed a machete towards Sam, handle first. "Kill! Kill!"

Sam didn't need to be told twice; he caught the weapon, let its momentum spin him, and brought it around in a double-handed grip to cut squarely through the witch-woman's neck. She let out a last cry of surprised outrage and died with a look of astonishment on her face as the blade sliced through, and embedded itself in the wall behind her.

The sudden silence was almost deafening.

Sam dropped the blade, and rushed back into the bathroom. "Lars! Lars!"

With a whuff, Lars reappeared in the tub, RJ nestled carefully between his forepaws, and snoring like his Daddy. Sam let out a breath he hadn't realised he was holding, and sagged against the door.

"Good job," he told the grinning dog, "You just, you just stay there for now, okay? Stay!"

With a resolute whuff, Lars turned his attention back to his charge.

Lemmy was sniffing curiously at Arjan the photographer. "I knew it," the man growled, "I suspected, then I knew, but could not catch her. Difficult to catch feeding."

Sam stared at the dead fugly. "I thought you had to use consecrated iron rounds on 'em, while they're feeding, to kill 'em," he commented.

Arjan shrugged. "Blade is blessed," he explained, "And decapitation kills most things. At least without head, cannot feed."

Sam had to admit, there was a relentless logic in that. "You're a Hunter?" he queried

"Not really," Arjan smiled sheepishly. "Sometimes. I am photographer. Others in family better at Hunting. Great-great-lots-of-greats grandfather was mistaken for witch, after killing shtriga. Surname is from that. In Albanian, comes from..."

"Soul-glutton," nodded Sam. "Well, at least I got that bit right." He looked down at his big brother. "Come on Dean, party's over, wake up," he said briskly, shaking his brother's shoulder. "Shit. She did something! Any idea about what she did? Some sort of spell? I saw her throw something in the air... come on, bro, wake up!"

Dean just smiled in his sleep, and moaned a little breathily.

"Okaaaay, that's just disturbing," muttered Sam.

"If you think is spell, there is man maybe can help," offered Arjan, "Very smart, this sort of thing. Not far away, also. I give you number. Is named Robert Singer. Is in South Dakota. Runs junk yard..."

"Bobby?" Sam blinked. "You know Bobby Singer?"

Arjan smiled one of his toothy grins. "Everybody know Bobby Singer," he pronounced. He gave the corpse of the shtriga a kick. "I can get rid of carcass for you," he offered, "That much, I know how to do. In case of police. Gunshots, may draw attention. You look after brother. And baby, yes?" He reached down to pat Lemmy. "And you look after humans," Arjan instructed him. Lemmy gave him a doggy grin.

"Yeah, well..." Sam shrugged helplessly, then held out his hand. "Thanks, man."

"Glad it is finally dead," Arjan shook his hand, "Take care of family, yes?"

"Yes," Sam sighed in resignation as Dean grappled passionately with his pillow, "That's definitely a yes."

Arjan turned, the checked himself. "Oh, before I forget," he said, "I am here for this." He handed a CD case to Sam. "Proofs. Photos. Ask Dean contact me, we talk about which ones he likes. Very photogenic family."

"Uh, thanks," Sam said distractedly, his mind already turned to the problem of Sleeping Beauty, who was becoming ever more amorous with his bedding.

With surprisingly practised speed, Arjan picked up the shtriga's head, hefted the corpse over one shoulder, and discreetly took his leave. Ordinarily Sam wouldn't trust someone he'd barely met, but, well, Lemmy had liked him. And Jimi's bloodline had a definite nose for evil shit.

He retrieved RJ from the bathroom, and settled him back in his crib with the dogs watching him, then turned back to Dean. "I'm gonna hafta call Bobby on this one," he told his sleeping brother, "And while I'm on the phone asking for some help with some sort of sleeping spell, I can tell him we've got another Winchester for him to worry about."

Dean rolled over, muttered something in a low, seductive voice, and began to make out with his pillow.

"Oh, God," Sam fumbled with his cell, desperate to fix this most discombobulating problem. He was concentrating on finding the right name in the menu when he heard a very quiet, very muffled, but very distinct cry.

"HEEEEEELP!"

**...****oooooOOOOOooooo****... ...****oooooOOOOOooooo****... ...****oooooOOOOOooooo****... ...****oooooOOOOOooooo****... ...****oooooOOOOOooooo****... **

Arjan moved silently in the shadows, carrying the carcass easily. He had never wanted to be a Hunter, didn't like the life, didn't like the job, but he'd been trained up with his brothers, and when he'd stumbled across the clues that suggested a shtriga was feeding, he'd felt obliged to do something about it. He was thankful that another Hunter had been present – they were obviously both Hunters, he'd been able to smell it on Dean from the moment they met – and he understood the need to deflect any suspicion, and dispose of any evidence. They did a necessary, unacknowledged, anappreciated, unpaid job. He was glad to help.

Taking care that he was not observed, he slid the remains into the trunk of his car. He knew that a large freshwater lake was not far away. Even if he hadn't already consulted a map against just such an occasion, his nose would've told him which direction to take.

It wasn't a long drive. The water was deep and still, and a thick growth of healthy trees ran right down to the water's edge at the secluded place. He assessed the site with satisfaction; it wouldn't take long to construct a sturdy underwater lodge, where he could secure the corpse and let it decompose out of sight. And it was an isolated spot – it might give him an opportunity to just swim, for the sheer hell of it. He didn't get to do enough of that.

Smiling to himself, his incisors lengthening and his slick glossy fur starting to emerge in anticipation of the night's work, Arjan the werebeaver began to shuck out of his clothing.

* * *

Werebeavers - they exist.

Felicity is, of course, the Winchesters' older sister, whose emergence into the Jimiverse you can read about in 'Nun Of That'.

Meanwhile, Nathaniel is in the home straight - he's already dictated a big chunk of the next chapter, so I'll see if I can get him to cough up the rest ASAP. Meanwhile, keep feeding him reviews! After all, Reviews are the Unexpected Wereanimal Unexpectedly Coming To Your Assistance As You Are Assailed By The Unexpected Difficulties Of Life! Unexpectedly! Gooooooo Nathaniel!


	25. Chapter Twenty-Five

Okay, here's the next one, so be generous to Nathaniel with his review-snacks (those amphetamine-laced carrots seem to be working).

* * *

**Chapter Twenty-Five**

Sam cocked his head in a very Castielesque fashion, and listened.

"HEEEEEELP!"

"You heard that too, didn't you?" he said to the dogs, who also both had their heads cocked and their ears pricked.

"HEEEEEELP!"

"Yeah, thought so, I'm not just imagining it."

"HEEEEEELP!"

It seemed to be coming from floor level.

"Ooooh, yeah, just like that," mumbled Dean with another happy sigh.

Telling the dogs to stay put, Sam switched on the bedside light, then reached into his duffel for a flashlight, and carefully crouched down to look under the bed. It creaked a little as Dean began to hump the mattress.

There was the usual accumulation of dust-bunnies, fluff, stains of uncertain origin, and... it looked a bit like a large jeweller's bag.

As he watched, the small fabric bag wiggled.

"HEEEEEELP!"

Sam hooked his knife under the drawstring, which was pulled tightly closed, and carefully lifted the bag out into the light.

"What have we got here, guys?" he wondered out loud, at a loss as to how to proceed. He offered the bag to them to sniff – both dogs did so, but simply regarded it with tail-twitching curiosity, not growling.

"Aaaaah-oh, that's fantastic," contributed Dean.

The bag wiggled again, and a voice called out "It's not half dark in here, guv, how about a bit o' light?"

Sam considered his situation. The dogs didn't seem inclined to worry about whatever was in there. Plus, whatever was in there was quite possibly the key to waking up his brother. Which was becoming increasingly important, since whatever that shtriga had done seemed not only to have put Dean to sleep, but was inducing some seriously vivid dreams...

"Ohhhh, ugh, yeah, oh, a bit to the left," groaned Dean, writhing in the bedclothes.

Sam gulped, undid the strings, and upended the bag onto his bed.

"Ow!" A small... being was the only word that came to mind, fell out. " 'Ere, careful!"

"Oh, uh, sorry," stammered Sam. He offered a careful hand, so that the small form could pull itself to its feet.

The tiny thing was humanoid, he saw, with words like 'pixie' and 'gnome' and 'sprite' popping into his head. As he watched, it stood up on bandy legs, dusted off its baggy clothes, and finally removed, inspected, then replaced a very small bowler hat. "Thanks, guv," it – he – offered him a tip of the hat and a cheerful grin as he thanked Sam in a British accent thicker than Crowley's. "Phew! Bugger me, them shtrigas pong something shocking. Disgustin' things. Anyway, ta lots for the rescue. I owe you one, china."

"Uh, who are you?" asked Sam, flummoxed, as Lars pushed his head past his Alpha to sniff at the tiny creature.

"Oh, sorry, rude of me," the small man-thing bowed, and held out his hand. "I'm Ralph. How do."

"Oh, uh, hi, Ralph," Sam continued awkwardly, carefully offering an index finger to shake, "Sam Winchester. I probably should've expressed that more clearly, as in, what are you?"

"I dunno, and him bein' a bleedin' Hunter, an' all," Ralph shook his head as he reached up to pat Lars' nose. "What are they teaching kids these days, eh, fella? I'm a sandman, Stretch."

"The Sandman?" echoed Sam incredulously.

"No," Ralph rolled his eyes, "Not 'The'. 'A'. A sandman. There's more than one. Well, has to be, dunnit? To get to all the kids in the world. Wouldn't work if there was just one, just 'The'. Who do I look like, Santa Claus? Do I see a sleigh that can carry me around the world in a single night? Do I see dainty pastries and alcoholic beverages bein' left for me in homage wherever I go? I don't think so, chum."

"Oh. Uh. Right," stammered Sam. "So, uh, what exactly were you doing in a bag, with a shtriga?"

Ralph the sandman crossed his arms and glowered. "Vicious old baggage kidnapped me. She lay in wait for me one night, in a little tyke's bedroom, and when I came along..."

"What were you doing sneaking into a kid's bedroom?" Sam interrupted.

Ralph glared at him. "Oi, I'm screwing this cat, pal, you're just holdin' it, right?" He sighed, and drooped. "Look. I'm a sandman. It's what we do, innit? We sneak into kids' rooms at night, when they go to bed, to give them happy dreams. A little pinch of dust, and away they go, off to the Land of Nod. Anyway, I was just getting ready to give little Michael his nightly dose – a dream about being an astronaut, I think it was – when, wallop! I'm whacked on the head, and whacked in a bag, and some bloody witch has kidnapped me! I knew it had to be a witch; mostly, people can't see me, on account of not bein' terribly occult, as a rule."

"I can see you," Sam pointed out.

"Yeah, well, it's you bein' a Hunter, innit? From when you was real young, if I'm any judge. You never learned not to see what's right in front o' you, like polite normal people do."

"How come I've never seen you before, then?" Sam demanded. "Any of you, I mean."

"My guess is, you started so young, either you don't remember, or somebody had you so tightly warded, we couldn't get near you," theorised Ralph. "We're not difficult to keep out. Salt does it. Iron does it. Dunno why you'd want to, but Hunters, well, it's 'cause they don't think like normal people. I'm guessin' that your mum or your dad kept your room warded tighter than a stripper's corset."

"Why did she kidnap you?" Sam wanted to know.

"For this." Ralph held up a very small pouch that looked remarkably like the one he'd been shoved into. "The dust. Chuck this stuff over the parents, they won't so much as twitch while you suck the life essence out o' their kid. They just lie there and smile while you do it."

"OhhhhOHHHH, don't stop!" gasped Dean.

"Well he's doing a lot more than just lying there and smiling," Sam pointed out, as Dean's amorous grappling with his pillow became more enthusiastic.

"Weeeeell, she got no idea about dosages, know what I mean, guv, so she was using waaaaaay too much. Enough to make a Kodiak Bear dream about bein' Winnie the bloody Poo, mate. A tiny little pinch is all it takes. It's potent stuff, has to be, I mean, the ED50 is much lower than you'd think..."

"I didn't think the, uh, that is, that sandmen were really, you know, real," Sam admitted sheepishly. "Or if you were, you were some sort of malevolent fairy, a boogeyman, who gave kids nightmares and fed off their distress."

"I blame that bloody band," scowled Ralph. "It's been nothin' but bad press since those long-haired louts done a slander on us. 'Beast under your bed', indeed! That's defamation, that is! Ha! We had the last laugh, though," Ralph grinned smugly. "Workin' holiday, in sunny California. Me and Sherman and Jannik and Francesco..."

"There are sandmen called Jannik and Francesco?" marvelled Sam.

"Exchange program. Wonderful thing. I spent a year in Finland, once – steep learning curve, getting the godfers off to sleep when the sun never sets properly, but the aurora, bloody marvellous. Anyway, we gave _them_ some nightmares, oh yes: one of 'em, he spent a very unhappy night dreamin' about hostin' a dwarf-tossin' event, only to discover that he was the guest tossee. It was Jannik's idea to add in the bit about bein' completely bald too, heh heh. And the other bastard, well, we let 'im imagine that some bloke called Dave took over his band while 'e spent the rest of 'is life working in an Amish furniture shop, serves 'im right with that beard, I reckon..."

"Oh, look, I bet Dean would understand exactly whatever you just said," Sam interrupted, "But unfortunately, he's asleep, and his happy dreams are gonna give me nightmares..."

Dean let out a long, tremulous moan on a rising tone that made Sam flinch.

"So if you could just wake him up..."

"Oh, I can't wake him up," scoffed Ralph. "I don't wake people up. I'm a sandman. We put 'em to sleep and give 'em dreams." Ralph hemmed thoughtfully, then jumped over to Dean's bed. "There's nothing wrong with 'im, he's just asleep. He'll wake up tomorrow, just like normal, feeling refreshed, and ready to face the day." He peered at Dean's face, and expertly lifted on eyelid. "Hmmmm. Mmmmm? Yer what? Wow..." he let the eyelid slide back into place, with a stunned and blushing expression on his own face. "Bugger me, chum, you might want to keep a bucket of water handy, in case the sheets catch fire."

"But you gotta do something!" wailed Sam desperately.

Ralph looked thoughtful. "I could give you a sprinkle," he offered, "Get ready for beddy-byes, and Uncle Ralph will send you dreams of, oh, let's see..." he peered hard at Sam, then shrugged. "Oh, well, each to their own, library it is, then..."

"No," Sam shook his head, "I can't sleep too deeply if Dean's completely out of it. It's not safe." He sighed with resignation.

Ralph looked up apologetically. "I could go and fetch you a pair of ear plugs?" he offered.

"No, I'll just," Sam waved his hands helplessly, "I'll just, you know, tough it out. I've had worse."

Dean let out a series of rhythmic grunts, and bounced on the mattress.

"Not by much," Sam muttered fratricidally, "But, yeah, I'll be fine. I'll babysit RJ and Robobonk here until morning."

"Well, I'll be off like the proverbial bucket 'o prawns in the sun, then," Ralph announced. "I'll have to get back to work. Sorry about the, er, yes, well," he waved a hand at Dean.

""Are you ladies triplets?" asked Dean quite distinctly.

"It's okay," sighed Sam. "Seriously. I'm glad you're free again."

"Do you all do yoga?" enquired Dean.

"So, goodbye, Ralph, have a good night, with lots of happy dreams."

"Does that tattoo go all the way down?"

"Not too happy, obviously."

**...****oooooOOOOOooooo****... ...****oooooOOOOOooooo****... ...****oooooOOOOOooooo****... ...****oooooOOOOOooooo****... ...****oooooOOOOOooooo****... **

The next morning, Dean awoke feeling strangely rested and re-energised, and relentlessly, unstoppably, annoyingly cheerful.

"Wake up, Sammy!" he chirped, bouncing with RJ in his arms over to the bed where Sam lay dozing, having not been able to drop off to sleep until the sound track to Dean's own personal porn movie had petered out some time just before sunrise.

"Nrrrrrg," went Sam, cracking open one eye and glaring at his brother.

"Rise and shine, little brother!" tweeted Dean, "Daylight's burning!"

"Daylight can fucking self-immolate, for all I care," Sam grumbled, pulling the covers over his head.

"Me and RJ have been out already," Dean told him. "We got breakfast."

"For my comment on breakfast, see 'daylight'."

"We saw some duckies on the pond, didn't we, RJ?" enthused Dean. RJ gurgled in agreement.

"For my comment on ducks, see 'breakfast'."

"We came back with coffeeeeeeee," wheedled Dean, waving the paper cup.

Sam sat up, slowly, stiffly, like Frankenstein's monster in the hammiest of remakes. "Hand it over and I may not hurt you," he growled. "Much."

"Hey, why the Mr Grumpy-Pants?" asked Dean. "The shtriga's dead, Arjan must've done a good job of getting rid of the evidence, because there's not a whisper of it out there this morning, we'll get to Bobby's today, this one's a job with a happy ending!"

"Don't talk to me about 'happy endings'," Sam demanded, his voice slightly shrill, "Not after what I had to sit through last night. And I had to do RJ's diaper change, and feed, flying solo, whilst listening to you with the dial jammed on Radio Sex all damned night."

"Wow, somebody woke up on the wrong side of the bed today, huh," Dean beamed, booping RJ's nose as his son giggled.

"Somebody didn't wake up on the wrong side of the bed," Sam corrected him, "Because that would entail going to sleep first. Which I didn't. Because I had to spend all fucking night listening to your fucking dreams..."

"And what fucking dreams they were," sighed Dean... dreamily. "It was fantastic, bro, it was like a rerun of some of the most spectacular moments of my life, remastered in digital. It was amazing. It was awesome. It was..."

"Noisy," snapped Sam, "It was noisy. The guy next door banged on the wall at one point. God knows what he thought we were doing in here while you were molesting your mattress."

"Well, you can nap in the car," Dean reassured him. "Come on, get up, get showered, and get your gear stowed.

They were on the road not long after, RJ watching the scenery go by, while Sam tried to doze in shotgun. It was made more difficult by the fact that both RJ and Dean seemed to have had a wonderful night's sleep, and enjoyed listening to some of Dean's tapes.

Dean tapped him on the shoulder some time later. "Nearly there, bro," he reported.

"Good," yawned Sam, "Because I need more coffee. Or a bed. Or more coffee, on a bed. I wonder if Bobby's got any..." he paused. "Dean," he said carefully, "Did you call Bobby and tell him about, you know, the small matter of you having a son now?"

Dean gave him a confused look. "I thought you were going to call him."

"What?" Sam gawped.

"I totally thought you said you'd call him," repeated Dean.

"I totally did not!" insisted Sam. "I distinctly remember telling you that RJ is your kid, so you should tell him!"

"No, you said you would."

"Dean, I've been nagging at you since we left Ronnie and Andrew's!"

"Which is why I thought you were going to do it..."

In the end, after much arguing (a lot of which was of the 'Did not!' 'Did too!' genre), Dean decided that, since they were almost at Singer Salvage, they could just show up at Bobby's and introduce him to RJ. "It's going to be a bit of a shock however we tell him," he reasoned, "The guy's a Hunter, Sam, he aint gonna be freaked out by a six-month-old kid. Nearly seven now," he corrected, smiling at his son in the mirror.

"Fine," Sam smiled a tight little Bitchface #9™ (I Know What I'm Doing, Jerk), "But if he pitches some sort of fit, it's totally on you."

* * *

Yeah, I think we need one more chapterlet, at least.

Reviews are the Sandman Bringing You Happy Dreams During The Snoozes Of Life!*

*If those dreams _must_ include the Winchester of your choice, please put any drool-affected pillow cases in the laundry hamper in the morning.


	26. Chapter Twenty-Six

This is now officially the longest story I've written. Nathaniel ended up being something of an Energiser bunny, didn't he?

Dean knows all about what happened, because when he first woke up, a bleary-eyed Sam told him, in detail, how he'd come to have such a good night's sleep, then Sam tried to nap a bit while Dean and RJ went out to get breakfast, and fetch Uncle Sammy a coffee. That's when they saw the duckies.

* * *

**Chapter Twenty-Six**

Bobby was in the living room when he heard the rumble of the Impala rolling into his drive. He headed for the kitchen, and watched Sam get out and head for the trunk to take out bags, while Dean let the dogs out, then leaned back into the rear seat and fiddled with something…

"So, who we got here?" he asked, when Pack Winchester trooped into his house.

"This is RJ," answered Dean.

"Huh, cute little guy," Bobby smiled. The boy smiled back. "So, what happened to his mom and dad? I'm assumin' that you brought him here because somethin' nasty is after him, and we need to find somewhere safe to hide him."

"Not exactly," replied Dean, a slightly sheepish version of his most winning smile on his face. "Look, Bobby, you remember when we went to visit Aphrodite, to get her to, uh, unhumanify my car? When Hephaestus undid the spell?"

"Yeah," Bobby nodded, "Lovely lady. Very interestin' scrolls she had, there."

"It wasn't her scrolls that Dean was interested in," commented Sam archly. Dean kicked him in the leg.

"Well, you know how you and Cas were reading the scrolls, and Sam and Heph were working on a better nuclear-fuelled mechanical mouse?" Dean reminded him.

"Yeah," Bobby nodded again. "You went to look at Aphrodite's tapestries. Which is something I aint heard it called before."

"Yeah, that's right," Dean smiled, "Well, you know how sometimes, men and women..."

"Or goddesses," Sam chipped in helpfully.

"Yeah, or goddesses," Dean agreed, "Anyway, you know how sometimes, males and females, they get together, they find they enjoy each other's company, and they may undertake informed, consenting, beautiful natural acts..."

"Is this gonna to take long?" asked Bobby solicitously. "Only, I got a Neighbourhood Watch meeting in February."

"Well, the thing is," Dean continued, "The thing is, sometimes, when a male and a female enjoy these beautiful natural acts, there are, uh, what I guess you could call, um, natural consequences."

"Consequences?" Bobby looked confused.

"Yeah, you know," Dean jiggled the boy in his arms, "Beautiful natural consequences. Of beautiful natural acts."

"Dean," Bobby eyed him, "Are you tryin' to give me The Talk? Because I gotta tell you, son, my Pa gave me that particular talk more 'n fifty years ago now. Well, I say he gave me a 'talk' but he didn't really say much, just let me watch while the Appletons' bull served the house cow, but..."

"No, no, no," Dean reassured him, "What I'm trying to say here, what I'm trying to tell you, is..."

"Oh, for fuck's sake," scowled Sam. "Bobby, when we went to visit Aphrodite, Dean had sex with her, she had his baby, and sent him to live with his father as a completely mortal human being, so this is Roverto Ioannes, or Robert John, he's six months old, nearly seven now, and he's my nephew, the son of Aphrodite and Dean."

Both Dean and Bobby blinked at him.

"This boy," Bobby began slowly, "This child... are you sayin' that... when we... and he... and she... and then... and now..."

"Uh, yeah," Dean confirmed. "I uh, I got a kid, Bobby. I'm a father. I'm a dad."

Bobby's mouth opened and shut a few times.

Then he let out a wheezing sound and collapsed to his knees, grabbing at his chest.

"Bobby!" shrieked Dean, putting RJ down as he dropped down beside his practically-father, "Bobby! What is it?"

Bobby just wheezed and gasped.

"OhGodohGodohGod," moaned Sam, fumbling for his cell, "I knew this would happen! You should've called ahead, Dean!"

"You shouldn't have just blurted it out like that!" yelped Dean.

"Well, you weren't gonna get to the point any time before Christmas!" Sam snapped.

Bobby let out another dreadful rasping croak.

"What is it Bobby?" Dean bent closer.

"Deeeeean," Bobby's breath rattled.

"Right here, Bobby," Dean assured him.

"Deeeeeean," Bobby repeated, his eyes rolling.

"I'm here Bobby, I gotcha," Dean tried to keep the tremor out of his voice, "What is it?"

Bobby drew a ragged breath, and pronounced:

"You're an idjit, Dean Winchester."

Sam and Dean stared at him.

"You're both idjits," he declared gruffly, getting up stiffly from the floor. "Next time one o' you goes and gets parentised, warn a body before you just show up."

Sam went from stunned confusion to pranked outrage first. "Jesus K. Reist, Bobby!" he yelped, "What are you trying to do, scare us the fuck to death?"

"You just knocked five years off my life, you old asshole," griped Dean.

"Serves you idjits right. You've given me enough almost heart attacks over the years. So," Bobby turned a beaming smile on the child on his kitchen floor, "This is RJ." He scooped the child up expertly, and RJ babbled happily at him, grabbing at his hat. "You really are your Daddy's get, aint ya?" he grinned as the boy cooed and smiled.

"Bobby, meet RJ," intoned Dean in a miffed tone, "RJ, this crazy old guy is your Uncl-… he's your Grandpa Bobby.

"You..." Sam began. "You knew already."

"Course I did," scoffed Bobby. "Ronnie told me. She knew you idjits wouldn't get your shit together to let me know, so a week after you left, she called me to give me a heads up."

"I'll kill her," growled Dean, "Right after I kill you."

"Yeah yeah, get in line, kid," Bobby grinned infuriatingly. "You'll have to hold off killing Ronnie for a little while, though. Dopey woman's got herself in whelp again.

"Again?" Sam sounded aghast.

"Uh-huh," Bobby nodded. "Unexpected, but they're both thrilled. Hoping for a girl, but they don't care, so long as it's healthy, got two eyes and two ears and four paws."

Sam let out a huff. "What is it with people?" he wondered out loud. "I mean, it's the twenty-first century. You want to avoid conception, it's not that difficult! And given the resurgence of STIs, barrier contraception is just the sensible thing to do for your own well-being!"

"Well, no form of contraceptive is one hundred percent foolproof, Sam," Bobby reminded him. "Even the Pill."

"Seriously, people need to take more responsibility," Sam declared. "Yeah, Dean, I'm looking at you."

"What?" Dean glared back. "Don't look at me!"

"If you can't keep it in your pants, you should at least be able to take precautions," Sam insisted. "She was a goddess, for fuck's sake!"

"Well, it's hardly my fault if Aphrodite had, I dunno, superhuman condom-confounding semen siphoning, or something, who the hell knows how a godess's works, uh, work…"

"DEAN!"

"Look, as fascinatin' as this topic is, there's something I think you might both want to see," Bobby interrupted, still jiggling RJ. "Or somebody you both might want to meet."

He headed for the living room, with the Winchesters in tow.

"You didn't say you had a visitor," Dean noted.

"Well, I'm tellin' you now," Bobby replied. "Although I know for a fact you've actually met this person before."

"We have?" mused Sam

"Oh yeah, you have," Bobby confirmed.

She was sitting on the sofa facing the door.

"Oh, hi, Kelly," Dean began, "What are you doing here?"

"Hi guys," she smiled, standing up awkwardly. "Well, it's kind of like this – Sam I need to tell you something…"

As soon as she was on her feet, her six-months-or-so bump became obvious.

Thankfully, since Bobby was still holding RJ, Dean was able to catch Sam as he fainted, and carefully manoeuvre him on the other sofa.

**...****oooooOOOOOooooo****... ...****oooooOOOOOooooo****... ...****oooooOOOOOooooo****... ...****oooooOOOOOooooo****... ...****oooooOOOOOooooo****... **

"Here you go, bro," Dean pushed the mug of sweet tea into Sam's hands, "Bobby says it's good for what ails ya."

"Meeeeeep," went Sam.

"Look, I know it's a shock," Kelly told him, "It was a hell of a shock for me too, but…" she rested her hand over her bump. "I think it was meant to happen."

"Meeeeeep," went Sam.

"He's thrilled, really," Dean told her breezily, "He's just so thrilled, he can't speak."

"Bullshit," grinned Bobby, "He's bewildered, terrified, overwhelmed, and if his legs would hold him up at the moment, he'd be running around in circles flapping his hands up and down."

"I tried that," Kelly mentioned, "It didn't actually change anything, but I felt better afterwards, so give it a try if you have to."

"Meeeeeep," went Sam.

Kelly sighed. "Look," she started, "I was only here because I wanted to get a message to you, and I knew that Bobby would be able to contact you. I just thought you should know, Sam. I'm not gonna chase you through the courts for maintenance, I don't want to set up house and play Mommies and Daddies, this was my choice and I'm not gonna force it on you, but I thought you deserved to know about her. That's all…"

"Her?" Sam found his voice. "It's… it's a girl?"

"So the ultrasound tech tells me," she confirmed.

"If you're lucky, she'll get Sam's hair," Dean commented, "Any girl would want hair like that. Hear that, RJ?" he said to his son, "You're gonna have a little cousin!" RJ babbled happily and clapped his hands

"I'm… gonna be a dad," Sam's voice sounded distant. "I'm gonna have a daughter."

"It could be worse," Kelly's grin was just slightly evil, "It could be twins… oh!" she sucked in her breath sharply. "Little cow is kicking again," she huffed.

"She's kicking already?" asked Sam.

"For nearly two weeks, now," Kelly confirmed. "Here." She took hold of his hand, and rested it on her belly. "Any second now…"

Sam suddenly jumped as if he'd been stung. "It… she's kicking," he pronounced in wonderment.

"A soccer player, just like her daddy," smiled Dean, "Oh, boy, you are in for a rough ride, Kelly, Sam was a hell of a striker at school…"

"Thanks for that," she rolled her eyes at him. "Anyway, now you know, I'll be going…"

"What?" squawked Sam, "Already? I mean, you've just… I've just… I've only just met her… kind of…" His face assumed its most wistful puppy-dog expression.

"You aint goin' anywhere, Missy," declared Bobby, "You don't want to miss the baby shower!"

"Baby shower?" echoed Dean.

"Oh, yeah," Bobby went on, "I organised one for you. You got here just in time, it's tomorrow." He smiled indulgently as RJ leaned over, made a questioning noise, and grabbed at his hat. He put the cap on RJ's head, and the kid babbled in excitement.

"Oh, Bobby," whined Dean, "I don't wanna do a baby shower, that's a thing girls do. I hate the whole idea of a baby shower."

"Well, you don't have to be here," shrugged Bobby, "It'll mean more pie for the rest of us."

"Pie?" echoed Dean.

"Jody said she'd make a baby shower pie for you," Bobby informed him, "But I guess I can call her, tell her not to bother…"

"I love the whole idea of a baby shower!" trilled Dean with a beaming smile.

"Glad to hear it," Bobby smiled, "That means you can help clear the place up – you are hereby assigned to vacuum cleaner detail."

"I hate the whole idea of a baby shower," Dean griped.

"You get presents, dude," Sam reminded him, "That's what it's all about."

"I love the whole idea of a baby shower!" Dean nodded vigorously. "We both do, don't we, RJ?" His son gurgled contentedly, then removed the hat from his head and began to chew on the peak.

"Balls," muttered Bobby. "Oh, well, I got others. So, I'm guessin' that if you took this long to get here, you struck something along the way."

"Shtriga," Sam confirmed. The Winchesters related the story of their run-in with the Bonny Babies shtriga.

"So, we got a supermodel in the family, huh?" grinned Bobby.

"Oh, that reminds me," Sam said, "Before he left, Arjan gave me this. It's proofs of RJ's photos." He took the CD out of his jacket.

"Oh, er, thanks, Sam," muttered Dean, making a grab for the CD.

"Photos!" piped Kelly, "Hey let's have a look!"

"No, I really don't think…" Dean began.

"Huh, that much is obvious," humphed Bobby, "Come on, Sam, let's see this kid struttin' his stuff."

"They're only proofs," Dean protested.

"Dean," Bobby growled, "This boy here is practically my grandson, and I intend to wear out at least two cameras on him myself, so indulge a sad, lonely old man and show him pictures of his for-the-moment only grandchild."

Dean made another grab for the disk as Sam flipped the laptop open. "Come on, bro," he wheedled, "We just want to see how awesome your kid is."

"Look, I just wanna see what's there before…" Dean tried again.

"Dean, sit down, and shaddap," instructed Bobby. "Let there be pictures! Let there be adorableness! I have spoken! It's a grandpa thing."

The disk spun up, Sam clicked the slideshow icon, and they shuffled together on the sofa so that all of them could see. A picture of RJ sitting in a toy car, waving his wrench, popped onto the screen.

"Oh, God," breathed Kelly, "You could make money off this kid."

"Heh heh, look at that smile," beamed Bobby, "He's yours all right, Dean."

"He really is a photogenic kid, Dean," commented Sam, bringing up another one of RJ laughingly playing with some colourful blocks. "Oh, a company somewhere would pay big bucks to have that on the front of their formula pack."

"Okay, he's awesome, I could've told you that," Dean said briskly, "So now you've seen his awesomeness in action, you can give me the CD, Sam…"

"We're just gettin' started," Bobby declared, "Oh, look at that one!"

"My head may explode from the cute,' smiled Kelly.

"Oh, look at that smile!" said Sam. "Dean, you totally have to get back to Arjan, get him to do you a folio…"

There were pictures of RJ in the car, playing with toys, crawling, looking happy, looking poignant, looking contented, looking just plain adorable…

"Awww, I'd have one of them on my window sill!" giggled Kelly at the picture of RJ grinning cheekily at the camera over the rim of a large flower pot.

"Yeah, well, we've all had a look now," Dean cut in, "So…"

Sam clicked for the next image.

There was total silence.

"Oh. My. God," managed Kelly eventually.

"I… I…" stuttered Sam.

"God's tits, boy," smiled Bobby.

RJ sat in his flowerpot, beaming like the world's happiest little pink plant.

And in a giant flowerpot right next to him, a shirtless Dean beamed right back at his son.

The three of them burst into laughter.

"You assholes," muttered Dean, his face pinking.

"No, no, that's fantastic!" Kelly enthused. "That is the sort of photo that people frame and put on the wall!"

"She's right, bro," Sam grinned, "It's great!"

"I'm orderin' my A3 print right now," declared Bobby.

"Tonight you will all die in your sleep," Dean mumbled, as RJ joined in the general levity.

There was more. There was a picture of Dean and RJ with their dog-ears beanies on. One of them both playing with the blocks, RJ sitting between his father's knees and showing him the blue one. And one of RJ asleep on Dean's shoulder, while Dean watched him with the look of a doting father.

"Somewhere, a pharma company will want to put that one on a bottle of infant paracetamol," Bobby nodded.

By the time the slide show was finished, Bobby had demanded prints of a number of the pictures, and RJ was demanding his next feed.

"Time for somebody to eat," announced Dean, "Shut that thing off, Francis."

"Yeah, yeah," Sam suppressed a snort of laughter as Dean stalked out of the room with as much dignity as a man can when his son is whacking insistently at his arm and hooting for his bottle.

"Those pictures really are fantastic," Kelly commented. "I don't know why he got so defensive about them."

"It's a Dean thing," Sam shrugged, going back to the one of his brother and nephew gazing lovingly at each other from their flowerpots. "He hates being caught in what he calls 'chick-flick moments'. What he doesn't realise is that he does one every time he looks at his son."

"I think he'll make a great dad," Kelly stated, as her eyes slid up to Sam's. "What about you?"

"I know he will,' Sam replied, and she rolled her eyes.

"No, dopey, I mean, do you want to, you know, like I said, this was my choice, and I'll stay in touch of you want, but you don't have to…"

"Oh. Oh!" Sam figured out what she was trying to say. "I'd… yeah, I want to know her! I mean, if you don't mind. If it's okay." He felt suddenly tongue-tied. "I'd like to know my daughter," he finished.

"I think she'd like to know you, too," Kelly smiled.

"So, what were you going to name her?" he asked.

"Still not sure," she said, standing up and stretching, "I got an aunt who's angling for a namesake, but she's called Muriel, and I refuse to do that to a helpless child."

"Please don't name her after a piece of fruit," begged Sam. "Or a comic character."

"You got any ideas?" she asked, "She's half your fault, you know."

Sam paused. "I, uh, I've never really thought about it," he admitted, "I never thought I'd have kids… oh, God, I can't believe I'm gonna be a dad… I mean, I talked about it with Jess, but that was, wow, it feels like a lifetime ago… Uh, I think I need to sit down again…"

An unseasonable burst of sunshine broke through the cloudy November sky, so they went outside and sat on the porch to discuss names.

* * *

HAAAAALP! HAAAAAALP! I'm drowning in the shmoooooop! It's pulling me undeeeeerrrrr! Come on, somebody at least throw me a lifebuoy. I'm sure somebody will pull me out, because you all want an epilogue of the baby shower, don't you? Don't you?

Please do be careful offering Nathaniel the plot bunny flayrah (we have at least one fan of Richard Adams amongst the Denizens, I see) too overtly, or this might happen:

**NyxRo:** Look, Nathaniel! I have flayrah! Come and get it! *rattles bag enticingly*

**Sam: **Carrots lettuce YUMMY! *crash tackles NyxRo and runs off with salady goodies*

**NyxRo:** Did anybody get the registration of that sasquatch?

Reviews are the Unexpectedly Expected New Little Winchesters in the Playpen Of Life!


	27. Epilogue

Hmmm, the problem with having Sam's daughter raised by her father is that, for that to happen, first I'd have to kill off Kelly, which we don't do in the Jimiverse. But Sam's made it clear he wants be involved in her life, so he will be. And there's no plan to have her married off to Connor, although if a werewolf and Sam Winchester's kid bred, they would produce offspring that could make a living simply from doing shampoo ads.

* * *

**Epilogue**

"Dean Winchester," growled Jody Mills in her best I Am The Sheriff voice, "You poke so much as a single finger into that pie, I will personally put you across my knee and spank you, and before you say anything, you will not enjoy it."

Dean's eyebrows fell, crestfallen, shot down before they could do so much as waggle lewdly.

"And if that doesn't work, I will knot your arms behind your head, little brother," added his big sister Felicity with a pleasant smile. "And you know I can do it, too."

"You wouldn't do that, would you, Fic?" Dean wheedled with his most wistful voice. "You're a nun. Nuns don't do that sort of thing."

"I'm only first professed," she grinned at him, "Which is like being on probation. Mmmm," she helped herself to a pig-in-a-blanket, "These are damned good."

"Hey! It's a Friday!" protested Dean, "You have to abstain from meat on a Friday!"

"Not since Vatican II, kiddo," she smiled, "Anyway, frankfurters aren't 'meat' as such. They're full of stuff that technically comes from an animal, maybe, but that doesn't necessarily count as meat…"

"When do we get to eat the _pie_?" Dean practicaly whined. Jody had baked a trial run pre-Thanksgiving pumpkin pie, which sat in pride of place in the middle of the table, with WELCOME RJ piped onto it in cream cheese frosting.

"Not before everybody gets here," growled Bobby, jiggling RJ as the boy gurgled and waved to Jody. He handed the boy he'd claimed as grandson over to her and checked his watch. "I'd better get the other trays in the oven," he muttered, "They'll be arriving any moment…"

"Dean," Kelly began in a warning tone, "You've already eaten a plate of pigs-in-blankets, half a dozen drumsticks, at least that many wings, several mini-pizzas, a couple of quiche slices, and God knows how many meatballs…"

"I'm making some space on the table!" chirped Dean, helping himself to another generous serving of meatballs. "Hey, Sam, how many angels on horseback do you think a greedy person can reasonably take at once?"

"I don't know, Dean," replied Sam, giving his brother a hefty Bitchface #11™ (I Am Appalled Dean, I'm Pretty Sure One Of Us Was Actually Adopted), "I would've thought no more than a dozen at a time."

Dean was so absorbed in contemplating this catering conundrum that he didn't hear the tell-tale _flap-flap_ until…

"Hello, Dean."

"Gaaah!" Dean jumped, sending finger food flying. Lars, Lemmy and Rumsfeld snuffled around eagerly on the floor to snaffle the tasty treats before somebody could stop them. "Jesus, Cas! How many times do I have to say it? What the fuck are they doing here?"

Castiel cocked his head. "You have not said that before," he noted, "Usually, you bellow 'Personal space!' at the top of your voice, with a certain number of obscenities added. I have noticed that the type of cursing you include in your imprecation varies with the activity that you are undertaking at the time; for example, the closer you are to a state of undress, the more numerous and more offensive the obscene words you include…"

"Hi, Cas," grinned Sam, "I think he's talking about them." He nodded to Andrew and Ronnie, who was holding Connor and looking slightly airsick.

"It was Bobby's idea," replied Andrew, "He asked Castiel to give us a lift, on account of we wouldn't be able to get here in time otherwise."

"I'm trying to figure out whether this is morning sickness, or air sickness," said Ronnie faintly. "I've never flown, you know, I got here all those years ago by hitching lifts on container ships and tankers…"

"It's okay," Sam assured her, "Bobby's got some little mini bran and prune muffins for later, just in case." There was a brisk knock at the front door. "Oh, I'll get that…"

"I don't care about bran and prune muffins," griped Dean, "What I care about is my angels on horseback."

Castiel looked confused again. "Angels do not ride horses," he pronounced solemnly, "There is no need. It is much more efficient to use our own wings. This vessel did ride a horse once, though – Jimmy complained for a week about the microtearing in his glutei maximi causing him discomfort…"

"He means his snacks," Kelly explained, indicating the rapidly diminishing contents of the pertinent plate. "That's what they're called. Devils on horseback have prunes in the middle. You must be Castiel, the Personal Spaceman."

"I am Castiel, an Angel of the Lord, a Warrior of Heaven," he told her in his best Sheriff of Heaven voice.

"Glad you could make it, Feathers," smiled Bobby, bringing more finger food into the living room, "I think some introductions might be in order here. This here's Sheriff Mills, Jody, this is Castiel, Sheriff of Heaven, maybe you two can talk shop later…"

He introduced those who hadn't met each other before, with Sister Felicity bobbing a quick genuflection to Castiel. "And this is Felicity, or Fic, Dean and Sam's big sister."

"Technically, since she 'married' your Father's Son, she's your sister-in-law," added Sam helpfully. There was a knock at the front door. "Oh, I'll get that…"

"And this…" Bobby took RJ from Fic's arms, and showed him to Castiel, "This is Robert John. RJ."

"Hello, Robert John Winchester," Castiel intoned seriously. "It is a surprise but a pleasure to meet you."

RJ gazed with astonishment at the angel, then burst into a huge smile, waving his arms in excitement. In his mother's arms, Connor began to babble stridently, waving his arms about as well.

"Wow," smiled Ronnie, bringing her baby closer, "Angels work like catnip on kids. Who knew?"

"It is no doubt the novelty value, as they are unlikely to have seen an angel before," suggested Castiel, "Small children who are only just starting to explore the world around them might reasonably be expected to _hrrrrngmph_!"

Both children let out happy shrieks as Castiel's eyes crossed and he let out a most unangelic stifled yelp.

"Uh, Cas, you okay, dude?" asked Dean. "What the hell just happened?"

"I am well, thank you, Dean," the angel confirmed in an ever-so-slightly shaken voice. "It is nothing of import. Your son, and yours, Ronnie, they… it is difficult to explain… small children have not yet learned the mental and intellectual filters that enable them to interact with sensing certainty within the reality of the space-time dimensions in which they exist, and at this pre-cognitive stage they are still able to perceive certain immaterial realities that a developed brain cannot process in context with logical cognition of the physical state they occupy…"

"Could we have that in English, Castiel?" asked Kelly.

Castiel frowned, then tried again. "They can see my wings," he told them, "And they just each pulled out a handful of feathers." He turned to the boys. "Please do not do that again," he intoned sternly, "It startled me, and was quite uncomfortable." He turned back in to Dean. "In answer to your query about what constitutes greed," he began, "It is a sin of excess, like gluttony or lust, a rapacious desire to pursue and acquire material possessions. Thomas Aquinas wrote that…"

"Just keep your damned carnivorous vessel away from my meatballs," growled Dean, snarling over his plate the way Lemmy would defend a bull chew from a strange dog.

"There's meatballs?" enquired Andrew hopefully, drifting towards the table.

"Yeah, well, we're not in your den now, Mr Alpha," smirked Dean, "So you can wait until I've had as many as I want, then if there are any left over, you can… HEY!"

Andrew reached out, let his hand change, and delicately speared a meatball with a three-inch claw.

"I'll make a rug out of you one day," muttered Dean.

"Uh, hey," Sam came back into the living room, "Bobby, you got more guests."

Bobby came back from the kitchen to greet two new arrivals, elderly ladies who would've been right at home at a Miss Marple cosplay event. "Senior Librarian Danael, and Senior Librarian Verael," he smiled, "How very kind of you to come, I'm so glad you could make it."

"How very kind of you to invite us to your happy occasion, Bobby," beamed Danael.

"How very lovely it was to receive such a polite invitation," added Verael, "One rarely receives communications of such a standard anymore."

"Oh, indeed," agreed her sister, "It's all this ghastly messaging. The electronic age."

"Email, the call it," sniffed Verael, "E for empty, if you ask me. Honestly, if you could see the spelling they use, it's as though vowels had never been invented…"

"Nobody takes time to think about what they wish to convey," nodded Danael, "The Heralds have come up with this ghastly thing called Flitter – anyone can just have a thought, and whoosh, they flitter around, repeating it for everybody. Father never would've put up with That Sort Of Thing, when I was a fledgling." She gave Castiel a hard stare; the Sheriff of Heaven fidgeted slightly under her withering gaze.

"Our youngsters use Splatter constantly," commiserated Verael, "I tell you, they are all just glued to their iThings. It was different when I Fell, we did our own torturing, we learned by practice and experience."

"It's the trouble with Young People Today," nodded Danael judiciously.

"Er, ladies," Sam broke in, "I don't think you've met everybody here…"

He made another round of introductions while Kelly poured tea for the new arrivals.

"A delightful child," smiled Verael as RJ cooed for her.

"Indeed," Danael chucked him under the chin, "One might almost wonder at how Dean Winchester might produce such a darling boy."

"Gee, thanks," muttered Dean, proffering a tray of cucumber and fish paste sandwiches at Bobby's prompting.

Hell's senior administrative overseer and librarian had just selected a sandwich when she paused, cocked her head, and said.

"I suggest that everybody move away from the corner with that rather tasteless lamp – he is quite big…" Then there was a puff of greasy smoke in the corner and a _fwop_ of displaced air.

"Hello Mr Singer!" boomed a happy voice. "Hello Mr Winchester, and Mr Winchester!"

Fic and Jody screamed. Kelly and Ronnie drew guns. Andrew burst into his wolf form and pushed his wife and child behind him, snarling and ready to fight.

RJ and Connor forgot all about Castiel's feathers, and hooted with excitement.

Sam, Dean and Bobby facepalmed.

"Balls," muttered Bobby. "Stand down, guys, this is Orgle, and he's here at my invitation. That expression means he's smiling."

"He's a fiend," Sam explained, "An overworked, underappreciated guy who just has a job to do, like the rest of us."

"Actually, I quite like me job," Orgle commented. "It's something different every day. Hello, Senior Librarian Verael! And Senior Librarian Danael! I hope your database retrieval algorithms are still performing at an acceptable speed?"

"They are indeed, Orgle," Danael nodded smilingly to the beaming fiend, "And might I add that it was a pleasure to have you on secondment to us – it's not often that fledgling Heralds take such pains with their reports."

"Senior Librarian Verael is very keen on correct filing," Orgle replied seriously. "Also, neatness, promptness, and pushing all the chairs back in at the end of the day."

"Just so, Orgle," commented Verael. "Just a little more tea, dear, if you would."

"Congratulations Mr Winchester!" Orgle boomed again, grabbing Dean in a hug that would've done a Cupid proud. "And you too, Mr Winchester!" he wiped the smile off Sam's face by glomping him as well. "How very exciting for you both!"

"Er, yeah," wheezed Dean, "Exciting. Definitely the word."

Bobby introduced RJ to Orgle, who greeted him solemnly, and just gave a strained smile when the boy giggled and yanked out a handful of his pelt.

"Well, dig in, people," declared Bobby, "This lot isn't going to eat itself. You're stuck again, aren't you?" he added to Andrew. The seven-foot-plus monster whined, and managed to look embarrassed.

"Perhaps, given the circumstances, I can assist you to shift back to your humanoid form," offered Castiel.

"Before you do," Sam interjected, "Could you please take him upstairs and lend him a pair of Dean's pants?"

Andrew whined again.

It was a strange, convivial gathering. Jody and Castiel commiserated over the difficulties faced by a Sheriff of any idiom, Andrew talked to Kelly about tactics to employ against feral Old North Werewolves, Bobby and Verael got into a robust discussion about some of Dante's writings, Fic and Danael talked about scriptural interpretation and The Trouble With Young People Today, and Ronnie made some shampoo recommendations to Orgle while the fiend jiggled both baby boys, multiple arms holding each of them. Jimi Junior's four pups made circuits of the room, hoping to cadge morsels from whomever seemed to be susceptible to the Big Brown Eyes dialled all the way up to eleven.

_You couldn't write this,_ Sam mused, watching his small, strange family with their small, strange circle of friends have a wonderfully social time, _This is so weird, the most brain-damaged fanfic writer in the world couldn't make this up…_

Senior Librarian Danael cleared her throat, and rapped her spoon on her teacup for silence. "At a gathering such as this," she announced, "It is human tradition to proffer gifts, to welcome the child into the world, and offer useful items to the new mother, or as the case may be, father." She called forth a small, beautifully wrapped present. "To this end, I have taken the liberty of procuring what I believe to be a suitable gift."

There were general murmurings of agreement as others produced their presents too.

Dean sat on the sofa with RJ on his lap, both of them beaming as Dean unwrapped presents while RJ 'helped'.

Danael's gift was an intricately wrought charm, which she informed he would protect RJ until he was old enough to protect himself against possession, enchantment and diaper rash. Verael's present was a brightly coloured children's book called 'One Slavering Daeva, Two Slavering Daeva, Red Slavering Daeva, Blue Slavering Daeva', which she claimed was the most popular item in the Imps' Literature section. Fic gave them an expertly knitted baby jacket with the Impala's registration plate worked into the back. Kelly proffered a baby book, to be filled with photos and keepsakes. Tribe Jaeger's present was a pair of werewolf-feet booties, some rawhide chews, and a CD that turned out to be Bloody Mrs Ingelborg singing a selection of German children's songs.

Orgle's present was too big for him to have wrapped, so he shyly handed over a stuffed toy with a big blue bow around its neck. RJ laughed, and clutched the toy. It was bigger than he was.

"Wow, Orgle," marvelled Dean, "RJ is going to be the only kid on the block with a… a teddy fiend. Thanks, man." Somehow, under all that pelt, the fiend managed to flush with pleasure. "So, what do I get from you, Francis?" he demanded. "No giftee, no eatee pie-ee."

"Well, I don't think I can compete with any of these," Sam told him, "Since I only had yesterday to go shopping, but…" he handed over a package.

It turned out to contain two tee-shirts, one sized for RJ, and one for Dean. They were both blue. And they were both emblazoned with a teddy bear and text reading I WUV HUGS.

"I hate you so much," growled Dean, as the gathering hooted and cheered and demanded that he model his shirt.

"I have acquired something for you also, Dean," said Castiel, a hint of pride in his voice, "I have done some research, and have ascertained that while presents for the baby are frequently offered, it is also acceptable to give the new parent something for themselves." He handed over an envelope. "Many internet websites pertaining to the matter suggested that this was a popular offering, and was generally well received."

Dean opened the envelope, took out the card inside, and read it with a carefully blank expression.

"What is it?" asked Sam, snatching the card up, then smiling hugely. "Oh. Oh! This is… yeah, this is a totally awesome gift, Cas."

"Show me that," Bobby insisted, taking the card and reading it aloud. "Says here, it entitles the bearer to one Parenthood Pamper Package at the Rub Scrub & Tub Club Day Spa, includin' an exfoliatin' facial, scalp massage, pedicure and soothin' back and shoulder massage – 'The perfect baby shower gift for a new parent needing a little bit of relaxing me-time!'."

"That's… that's…" Kelly managed an heroically straight face

"… A really good idea," Ronnie finished for her, as Andrew had some sort of coughing episode. She kicked him in the shin.

"Your diligence is, as always, commendable, Castiel," beamed Danael, as Verael nodded.

"We're just envious," nodded Jody, as Fic made a strange gurgling noise. "Aren't we Fic?" She elbowed the nun in the ribs.

"Oh yes," squeaked Fic, clearly having a Biggus Dickus moment, "We're over here, just seething with envy. Seethe seethe, we're going. Something for me to confess."

"Never underestimate the relaxin' power of a good pedicure," intoned Bobby with all the gravitas of a Man of Knowledge.

"That's… very kind of you, Cas," Dean managed eventually, "This is a very thoughtful present. Thanks, dude."

"I am glad that you like your present, Dean," Castiel offered him a small smile, clearly pleased with his offering's reception.

"Can we have pie now?" begged Dean.

Jody took pity on him, and let him cut the pie, with RJ looking on and hooting encouragement at his father. As the assemblage clapped and cheered and reminded Dean that he had to share, there was another knock at the front door. Bobby went to answer it.

"Yoohoo! Bobby!" called a cheerful voice. "Bobby! Are you there?"

Bobby opened the door. The knocking had apparently been done by a giant bunch of blue balloons, emblazoned with teddy bears, cuddly Hellhound puppies and IT'S A BOY!

"Balls," muttered Bobby.

"Bobby, mate!" chirped the bunch of balloons, "A little bird told me! Well, a little spy, really, obviously, but the figure of speech is much nicer. Such wonderful news! I am so happy for you!"

"What are you doin' here, Crowley?" the old Hunter growled.

An arm broke through the balloons, and a round, beaming face appeared. "I'm here to help you celebrate your first practically-grandchild, of course!" the King of Hell replied, "For some reason, my invitation got lost, it was probably stopped by the Firewall, ha ha…"

"You didn't get an invite, because you weren't invited!" barked Bobby.

"Oh, don't be like that," wheedled Crowley, "Look, it's a grand old tradition, to wet the bairn's head, which is a polite way of saying let's do some drinking – I brought a lovely bottle for the purpose, a 27-year-old Laphroaig, rare but available if you know where to look…"

"I'm not kiddin', Your Majesty," Bobby scowled, "You are not wanted here. You're about as welcome as a silver spoon at a werewolf christening. A pork chop at a Bar Mitzvah. A turd at a pool party. I'm not lettin' the King of Hell anywhere near my boys if I can help it – you think I'll let you near a baby who is to me a grandson?"

"You wound me, Bobby, sometimes you really wound me, love," sighed Crowley. "Look, I brought him a stuffed Hellhound, the imps love to chew on these when they're teething, I'll bet that little Robby John is a right fiend for chewing on things just about now…"

A slosh of holy water hit Crowley in the face. He fell back, with a shriek, in the shocked realisation that he was on his backside on the porch because Bobby had punched him.

"Listen to me, you slimy no-good scheming back-stabbing murderous sumbitch," hissed Bobby, his face a mask of rage, "And you listen good. If you so much as look sideways at that child, I will summon you, and I will_ end_ you, and before I am finished, you will scream and beg for Alistair to come back and take over and treat you more mercifully, do you hear me? I don't care if Hell implodes, I don't care if the post-Crowley bickering Down There causes the death of gods, the obliteration of galaxies or the start of more reality TV shows, I don't care if God Almighty Himself comes to smite me for meddlin', you so much as think that boy's name, I will come after you, Crowley, I will come after you with everythin' I got and then some, and I – WILL – SEE – YOU – DESTROYED."

"Bobby," Crowley's voice was very small, "Bobby, I… I won't hurt him. I promise. I do, I promise. Would I do that to you?"

"If it suited your ends, yes," Bobby snapped.

"But…" the King of Hell looked forlorn. "I need Winchesters, Bobby. I have come to the thoroughly unwelcome and demoralising conclusion that I need them. If you ever tell anybody I said that, I'll burn your house down, darling, but… it's true."

Bobby's eyes narrowed.

"I need them," Crowley reiterated. "To scare demons into line. They're my boogeyman, my monster-in-the-closet, my fear-of-the-dark. If you don't pull your head in, I can say, I'll throw you to the Winchesters. It's really the only reliably effective threat in my arsenal. Well, if you don't count being put on litter tray duty for Gedda. If one of them has bred, that means another Earthside generation of frightening the _stercus_ out of ungrateful upstarts who want to make my life difficult. And maybe, maybe I'm just a little bit happy for you, the closest thing I have to a friend in all of Creation…" He offered his most lonely and poignant expression, and waved the bottle of scotch enticingly.

Bobby let out a long breath. "You aint my friend, asshole, and If Dean doesn't want you here," he stipulated, "You leave. Immediately. Or I will have the gargoyles escort you off the premises, with extreme prejudice."

"Of course!" Crowley's cheerful breeziness reasserted himself as a small white comet of smoke appeared and whizzed around Bobby. "Ah, there you are, Gedda my darling," he smiled, as the small teacup Hellpoodle resolved into her physical form and wagged her tail at Bobby. "She does love to visit you, you know. Now, I'm sure that if I offer enough booze, Dean's liver will convince the rest of him to tolerate me for a short period. I must say, well done on the breeding program though – did you have any thoughts of putting the Moose out to stud? It would be a shame to lose that intellect. Or that hair. And he does pull the most amusing faces when he's annoyed, think how adorable that would look on a kiddlywink…"

"Come in, Crowley," sighed Bobby, muttering the charm that would let the demon step into the house.

* * *

**Lampito: **Haaaaaaalp! I'm drowning in the fluffy schmoop! I'm suffocating in the shmoopy fluff!

**Sam:** Can't help eating flayrah nom nom nom nom

**Dean:** Good. I hope you drown.

**Lampito (furiously treading schmoop):** If you don't get me out of this, I'll dictate one last dying fic!

**Sam: **Om nom nom nom

**Dean: **I'm sorry, I didn't hear that over the sound of my own awesomeness.

**Lampito: **There'll be tutus! And small Korean cars! And chick-flick moments! And a job at a conference that aims to match pre-surgery transsexuals up with surgeons who are most suitable to help them!

**Dean (in horror):** You wouldn't!

**Lampito: **There will be eye-liner! And leg waxing! And uncomfortable foundation garments stuffed with socks!

**Dean:** Aaaaaaaargh!

**Sam: **Will there be flayrah?

**Lampito (going under but bobbing to the surface again)**: No! But there will be *splutter splutter* haircuts!

**Sam:** Aaaaaaargh!

**Lampito:** There will be a tsunami of custard, and the DDD&SSS Surfing Club!

**Winchesters:** AAAAAAAARGH!

*The Winchesters pull Lampito out of the shmoop. Sam spots another Denizen waggling carrots for the bunny, and heads off to glomp her. Nathaniel hops up, and nibbles on Lampito's ear*

**Lampito:** Yeah, yeah, all right, one last bit. Then I'm going to vacuum myself to get rid of the fluff...

* * *

Okay, so I'll get Nathaniel to dictate the last little bit if you guys promise to review for this chapter, then the next one. Do we have a deal? No, I do NOT want your soul. I know where it's been...

Reviews are the Delicious Finger Food Nibblies Served To You in the Living Room Of Life!*

*Yes, yes, buy the Winchester/Angel/Demon of your choice, if you must.


	28. Coda

**Coda**

When the pie was gone and the last guest had finally driven, flown or zapped away, and RJ was upstairs asleep with Lemmy watching over him, they made a start on clearing up.

"I guess you're wonderin' why I didn't give you a present," commented Bobby casually.

"You're gonna be his Grandpa Bobby," Dean replied, "That's all the present he needs from you."

"Well, I did get him something," Bobby went on, "But I'll need a hand with it. Sam, I need to borrow your idjit brother."

"Don't be in a hurry to bring him back," smiled Sam, heading for the kitchen with an armful of dishes and with Lars at his heels hoping for crumbs.

"Where are we going?" asked Dean, as Bobby led him out to one of the sheds.

"I didn't have room inside," Bobby told him, "And it needed a bit of work, the varnish was peelin', needed cuttin' back and another coat or two, but it's structurally sound…" He pulled a drop sheet off a strange, bulky shape in the corner.

It was a crib.

"Bobby," breathed Dean, running a hand over the wood and taking in the workmanship, "This is... this is amazing."

"We talked about having kids," Bobby explained, "Me and Karen. I didn't want to, you know, to start with, but she talked me around, before... I made this for her, and we were tryin', when she…" he stopped, and rubbed at his eyes. "We never got to use it, but… I never could bring myself to get rid of it. An' I'd be pleased if you'd use it when you're here, for your boy. Our boy."

Dean broke his own rule and grabbed the old Hunter in a fierce hug. "Thanks, Bobby," he said, his voice thick, "It's perfect. I love it. And RJ will too."

"Well, you can make yourself useful and give me a hand to take it in, then," Bobby sniffled surreptitiously, "Be careful, and try not to take any chunks outta the wall on the way."

"Yes, Bobby," replied Dean, wiping his face on his sleeve and stifling a grin.

"We're all gonna have to make some adjustments," Bobby went on, shuffling backwards with one end of the crib. "You most of all. You aint gonna be able to spend your life on the road the way you did."

"Yeah, that's become kind of obvious," agreed Dean.

"I mean it," Bobby pressed, "You got a boy of your own now. He needs a home. He'll need to go to kindergarten, he'll need to go to school. Raisin' a boy on the road aint no way to raise a kid. But you know that already."

"Yeah," Dean sighed, "Yeah, I guess I do."

"Course, you don't have to give up Huntin'," Bobby continued, "I doubt anything short of a direct nuclear strike could make you give up Huntin'. But you got a home base, here. There's room for RJ to have his own room, when he's older. And I can look after him, when you're on a Hunt."

"Bobby…"

"I got plenty of job-relevant experience," Bobby reminded him, "God knows, your father left the two of you with me often enough. If I survived two Winchesters, I can deal with just one at a time. For a start, if there's another Great Bathtime Escape, one escapee will be a lot easier to deal with."

"Bobby, I don't wanna dump that on you…" protested Dean.

"Well, you spend more time here with him, then," stated Bobby, "Bein' his Dad, so I don't have to. Don't look at me like that; when you're here, I'll make you earn your keep, I aint having no freeloaders. And when you're not, I'll make sure he's practising the things he'll need to know for when you taking him Hunting with you."

There was silence as they wrangled the crib up the stairs and onto the porch.

"Thanks, Bobby," Dean smiled, "Thanks. For everything."

"Well, just keep it in your pants from now on, idjit," Bobby instructed gruffly.

"We'll have to babyproof your house again," Dean pointed out. "He doesn't have a big brother to watch over him."

"He's got the dogs, and his dad, and his uncle, and his grandpa," Bobby pointed out, "And for the rest of it, I don't want to stop him from being a kid."

"I don't think I'd mind that much," mused Dean, "When he grows out of the screaming, and the teething, and the drooling, and the diapering, and the middle-of-the-night wailing, and the puking, and the laundry, although that's not so bad, because I've more or less got Sam trained to do it now…"

"Son," Bobby smiled at him, "You may not understand this right now, but enjoy it while it lasts, because one day, he'll be in the refrigerator, trying to steal beer, and heading off who knows where in the car, and you'll wonder to yourself, what happened to my little boy? How did he grow up like that when I wasn't looking?"

"To hear you tell it," Dean grinned, "Anybody would think you'd been through it with kids of your own."

A piercing wail from upstairs suggested that RJ was awake, wet and hungry. They heard Sam's feet go thundering up the stairs, calling reassuringly to his nephew before he got there.

"Okay, yeah, the screaming and the diapers, it's good once you get past that," Bobby admitted. "But enjoy him while you can, because once he's all grown up…"

"He'll be a total pain in the ass?" prompted Dean.

"Oh, yeah," Bobby nodded, "But his family history suggests that he'll be an awesome pain in the ass."

Dean laughed at him, then they carried the cot into the house.

**THE ****END**

* * *

*squelch*

Ta-dah! FINALLY, the largest, loudest, most persistent and definitely FLUFFIEST plot bunny I've ever been attacked by has been stomped. Nathaniel was the last sibiling released at the funeral of Kenneth, all those months ago, so finally that family of long-eared literary loonies is no more. There are no more plot bunnies hopping around in the pen for the moment, but that happy state of affairs never lasts for long, le sigh. I think we've covered just about all the major fanfic tropes in the Jimiverse now, short of slash (which I do NOT do – if that's your thang, well and good, it's just not mine), but feel free to suggest any I've missed. And I suppose a visit from the DDD&SSS van - or have we upgraded to a bus? - might be needed. If only to clean up after the baby shower. Remember, the Denizen with the most reviews submitted gets to hold The Clipboard!

Meanwhile, Reviews are the Fluffy Incidents That Make You Go Awwww When You Are Being Assailed By The Unpleasantly Solid Parsnip Of Real Life.


End file.
